


Their Daring, Nerve, and Chivalry

by AnorOmnis



Series: Their Unconquerable Souls [3]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, First War with Voldemort, Marauders Era (Harry Potter), Marauders Friendship (Harry Potter)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-22
Updated: 2020-07-14
Packaged: 2021-03-03 01:01:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 13
Words: 24,429
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24326185
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnorOmnis/pseuds/AnorOmnis
Summary: PART OF A SERIES BUT CAN BE READ ENTIRELY STAND-ALONEThe Marauders are part of the Order of the Phoenix, and the First Wizarding War begins to exact its deadly tolls.
Relationships: James Potter/Lily Evans Potter
Series: Their Unconquerable Souls [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1756231
Comments: 6
Kudos: 6





	1. Chapter 1

As a young child given to fantasizing about grand duels and magnificent acts of heroism, James had often wondered how he would respond in a situation where he would have to risk his life in the service of a higher cause. He had been worried, in the confused way that only very little children are, that he might not be made of stern enough stuff to do the right thing when push came to shove. It was a worry that had troubled him very deeply. James had always wanted to be a hero, much like his mother. Euphemia Potter had been one of the most celebrated Aurors in the history of the department prior to her retirement, having once faced off against Grindelwald in France, and more importantly, having survived the perilous encounter. 

  
  


The worry had gnawed at his mind, until one day he confessed his insecurities to his mother. Euphemia, being a discerning woman, had told James there was more to him than he himself yet knew. A few days later, she was proven correct. James had leapt in to defend a poor waif from being set upon by several of the larger neighbourhood lads. His heart had been pounding with fear as he stood between the little girl and the five towering boys, but he had steeled himself and done it anyway. He had come out of the altercation physically worse for the wear - his chest was bruised, his hands were calloused, and there was a hole in the front of his teeth. Still, as he proudly proclaimed to a horrified Euphemia - he’d done the right thing. And that was victory enough.

  
  


Of course, had James been a Seer at five, and blessed with foresight of the future, he would never have needed to worry about suffering from a lack of bravery. If the current James at nineteen could will an influence backwards onto himself in the past, it would be to spend less time worrying about whether or not he would be willing to take risks to do the right thing, and more time figuring out how to escape a hypothetical situation in which he was suspended upside down in midair, with his wand held tantalizingly just out of reach by a Death Eater.

  
  
  


Only it wasn’t so hypothetical anymore, really.

  
  
  


Bellatrix Lestrange waggled James’ wand enticingly in front of his immobilized head. James gave a dignified sort of grunt, but made no other response. Bellatrix rolled her eyes.

  
  


“Weren’t you supposed to be one of the witty ones? Couldn’t quite shut up the time you came to see my dear cousin in Grimmauld Place, as I recall. Awfully quiet now, though, aren’t you?”

James remained resolutely silent. All the information the Order had on Bellatrix pointed toward the same conclusion - she was a frenetic, intense sort of woman. If he stayed quiet and didn’t give her anything to work with, she would likely bore with him quickly and move on.

  
  


‘Come now, Potter - it wouldn’t do for you to look so  _ bored _ in my company. I’m a charming young lady, after all,” Bellatrix crooned, “Have you forgone the legendary Gryffindor chivalry for common blood traitor boorishness?” She waved her wand, a feverish glee in her voice, “Give me a  _ smile! _ ” 

  
  


Against his will, James felt his lips begin to curl slowly upward, until he was at last forced into a prim smile.

  
  


“That won’t do, wee little Potter,” Bellatrix said sweetly, “You’ve  _ really _ gone and hurt my feelings.” She stretched her pearl-white neck backward languorously, causing her hair to fall beguilingly onto her bare shoulders. “You’ll have to smile at least twice as widely as that,” she cooed, turning her wand upon him once more.

His lips continued to curl, his smile growing wider and wider, until it began to look like a freakish parody of mirth. But they did not stop curling. His smile grew wider and tighter, and he felt an incredible pain at the corners of his lips. The pressure grew, waves of pain dulating through his body. Bellatrix beamed. The intense agony brought tears to his eyes. His whole being shook intensely as it pulsed through him. Bellatrix’s wand mirrored his shaking, but her eyes were free of tears, their deep black possessed only with wild excitement.

With a wrenching rip, James’ lips tore open at the corners, and he screamed.

  
  
  
  
  


\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

  
  
  


“ _ Alohomora! Confringo! _ Just open already, damn it!”

  
  


Sirius leaned back against the wall after firing another barrage of spells at the still obstinately shut door. He had tried subtle methods - the unlocking charm, a disarming charm aimed at the locking mechanism, a freezing charm to cause the lock to expand and snap. When those had failed, he had resorted to increasingly violent alternatives, attempting to blast the door clean off its hinges. Now, with his creativity largely exhausted, he found himself tossing spells with random abandon. But none of them seemed to work.

  
  


He wiped at the sheen of sweat on his glistening forehead. His heart was thudding and he took ragged breaths. His body was not yet finished grappling with the adrenaline of the battle from a few minutes before. The constant spellcasting had also begun to take its toll on him, and he was veering dangerously close to complete magical exhaustion, which was practically a death sentence here, in the middle of the Death Eater’s hideout. The sensible thing to do would be to Disapparate away and let the rest of the Order find and rescue James.

  
  


But James would never have abandoned him here. And so, he really couldn’t give up either. Especially since it had been Sirius’ idea for the two of them to pursue Travers rather than just find the Scroll of Sealing, as had been their original job description. Ergo, it was Sirius’ fault that James was in this mess.

  
  


Not to mention that James had been a bloody heroic prat,  _ again _ . Nobody had asked him to jump in front of Sirius to take the curse intended for him, and yet he had. Sirius swore to himself that it almost felt like the wanker got off on it, sometimes. No doubt he rubbed one out to images of himself running to save his friends from Voldemort in between his regularly scheduled nude-Lily fantasies. 

  
  


_ Lily _ . Sirius shuddered, the heat of his body and his exhaustion suddenly forgotten. The soon to be Mrs. Prongs would have his head for this. She did not look kindly upon James and Sirius’ tendency to have a spot of fun in the middle of their missions, frequently reproving them for being  _ a pair of reckless daredevils _ . Sirius reflected solemnly for a moment. Maybe Lily had a bit of a point.

  
  


At any rate, he had to get that blasted door open. Who had that cloaked figure been, to erect so sophisticated a defense with just one distracted wave of their wand as they had spirited his best friend away?

  
  


“ _ Engorgio!  _ Er, maybe -  _ Reducio!  _ Bugger, well, how about  _ Reducto!’ _

  
  


The spells bounced off harmlessly. Sirius’ eyes welled up in frustration, and he let out a low roar of rage. He walked up to the door, and, not expecting anything to happen, kicked it as hard as he could.

  
  


The door slid open.

  
  


Sirius blinked. He definitely hadn’t expected that to work. He blinked again.

  
  


A loud scream came through the doorway, snapping Sirius out of his reverie. He knew that voice - James was in pain.

  
  


He leapt through the door, wand raised aggressively, and immediately spied the Death Eater levitating his best friend before her - cloaked no more. He snarled a challenge, and fired a pair of non-verbal stunners at her.

  
  


Her reflexes were almost inhuman. Without so much as turning to look at him, she flicked her wand upward, causing the first of his spells to fizzle away into nothing as it collided with an invisible shield, even as she slapped the other away with the back of her hand, as though it had been nothing more than a harmless Trip Jinx.

  
  


“Don’t, Padfoot, no,” James said, “You need to leave,  _ get out _ , she’ll kill you.” His mouth was full of blood, and there was a genuine fear in his eyes that Sirius had rarely seen before.

  
  


“Aw,” the witch cooed. “Is darling little Potter worried that his friends are going to be hurt?” She mocked him in a baby-like voice, and though her back was turned to him, Sirius suddenly knew who she was.

  
  


“Bella.”

  
  


Bellatrix turned around at the sound of his voice, lips stretching in lazy delight as she recognized him. “Well, well - if it isn’t young cousin Sirius!” She turned her wand toward him. “Only, I suppose we can’t call you that anymore, can we? Not since the nasty little blood traitor ran away and quite broke dear old Aunt Burgie’s heart.” She looked at him poutingly, one hand moving to her hip as the other kept the wand trained on him, “Whatever can I call you now, I wonder? Perhaps a dead man?” She took a slow step forward, a sensual movement that stirred through her body. 

  
  


“You know...”

  
  


There was a cruelty in the curve of her lips, the tightness of her fingers on her wand, the sudden gravelly bass of her voice-

  
  


“...I always hoped it would be me who’d get to finish you off.”

  
  


\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

  
  


A chill ran through James as he heard Bellatrix’s words. Sirius had to leave, now. Bella was twice as powerful as either of them was - the greatest talent of her generation. He would stand no chance. And yet, Sirius haughtily stepped into a dueling stance, facing her with an almost bored look on his aristocratic features.

  
  


“Padfoot,  _ run! _ ” It hurt to speak through the bloodied mess of his mouth, but James persevered. Nothing, _ nothing _ was more important in that moment than seeing that Sirius made it out alive. His fate was not to be the same as James’ - no slow torture leaving an avenue for escape. There was unconcealed murder in Bella’s eyes. If Sirius didn’t flee now, he would never have the chance.

  
  


“Calm down, Prongs,” Sirius chided. “Really, you’re making it sound like this is the first slimy little snake I’ve had to duel.” He began to slowly pace sideways, his wand in a loose grip in his right hand. “I assure you, I’ve seen cousin Bella in action more than enough times. I know how she fights. Remember when I made you cry in Uncle Cyg’s living room, Bella?”

  
  


Bellatrix made no response, choosing instead to smile widely. She mimicked Sirius’ dueling posture, and began pacing opposite him.

  
  


“You must have been, what, sixteen? And a little piece of uncontrolled, wandless magic by a kid who wasn’t even in Hogwarts yet was enough to knock you flat. Nah, Bella - all the Order lot are scared of you, but you’ve got a bit of a mental block around me, haven’t you?”

  
  


James’ heart pounded intensely. Entering a room with Bellatrix Lestrange was an act which spoke to an almost complete absence of the human instinct for self preservation. Antagonizing her was nothing less than a deathwish.

  
  


And yet, Bellatrix did not rise to the taunt. She simply continued her pacing, a wide-eyed smile still plastered across her face.

  
  


When Sirius spoke again, there was a note of barely detectable unease in the edges of his voice that James was sure only he could hear, “Not going to say anything, cous-”

The first curse struck Sirius in his chest before James had even registered that the duel had begun, knocking his friend back and causing him to cough up a dark, miasmic sludge. Before he could so much as point his wand, a second spell - a Blasting Curse - took a chunk out of his right shoulder, narrowly missing his neck, toppling him to the floor, his wand rolling helplessly out of his hand.

  
  


The duel was over. Bellatrix walked over to her fallen foe, the rapturous smile on her face growing wider. She kneeled over Sirius, stroking his hair away from his forehead with a gentle hand, and spoke, almost in a whisper.

  
  


“I’m such a lucky girl...”

  
  
  


James shut his eyes. He wasn’t brave enough to watch his best friend die. The ghost of the last image seen by his eyes was etched into his brain - Bellatrix, kneeling over Sirius, one hand cradling his face, the other pointing a wand at him. There was no escape. 

  
  


_ Padfoot _ . 

  
  


This wasn’t how it was meant to end. His mind was lost in turmoil. He couldn’t lose Sirius. His body shook and his wet face crumbled. The world seemed to stop turning entirely, and every moment lasted an eternity as he waited to hear the soft, deceptively gentle  _ whoosh _ of the spell that would take his best friend’s life.

  
  


It never came.

  
  


_ BANG! _

  
  


James’ eyes opened just in time to see Bellatrix leap back, swatting away three powerful Stunners as she moved. Lily, Remus, and Dorcas Meadowes jumped into the room through the smouldering hole where the wall had been. The rest of the team had arrived. An incredible hope filled James. Sirius was alive, he was going to  _ make it.  _ Even Bella wasn’t crazy enough to try and duel the three of them at once.

  
  


She seemed to have come to much the same conclusion, eyes darting from one wand to the next. She called out to Sirius, “Don’t think for one moment that this is the end, cousin! I will have my due yet.” And then, with an elegant swish of her robes, she was gone.

_ Sirius was alive _ .

  
  


James hardly even registered falling onto the ground as Bella’s Levitation Charm failed, or the gentle warmth of Remus’ wand as he knitted James’ lips back together. Sirius was alive. For a moment, he had almost had to face a world without him - a world without Padfoot - dark, empty, terrible. An indescribable, buoyant joy vibrated through every atom of his being.

  
  


“Are you alright?” There was Lily, worry etched into every beautiful part of her beautiful face, green eyes staring down into him with so much more love than he knew he would ever be able to make himself worthy of, even if he were to live a thousand lives.

  
  


“I’m fine,” the words burned his mutilated lips. “Sirius?”

  
  


“He’ll be fine. She hit him with a rather nasty piece of Dark Magic, and it may cause some complications in the short term, but he should be well with a bit of time.” She chewed uneasily on her bottom lip as she looked at him. James knew that face - it meant that she wanted to say something but wasn’t sure if she should.

  
  


“What is it?”

  
  


“You could have died, James.” The worry was gone now, replaced by a rapidly heating anger. “You were supposed to follow orders! We were all just supposed to get the Scroll and run. Why on earth did you have to chase after Travers? What could  _ possibly _ have possessed you to seek out  _ more _ trouble than we were already in?”

  
  


It had been Sirius who had chased Travers, and James who had pursued simply to make sure that his friend was not hurt, but he didn’t feel like saying that right now. He was still in pain, still reeling from the fact that  _ Sirius was alive _ , and not at all happy about Lily’s sudden transition from concern to rage.

  
  


“We got Travers though, didn’t we? One fewer Death Eater on the streets.” James smirked, knowing it would incense her, “Seems like a worthwhile detour to me.”

  
  


Lily’s eyes blazed, and she poked him hard in the chest, shouting, “You could have  _ died!  _ You and Sirius both, idiots that you are - you both - do you have any idea how terrifying it was to think that-” She cut off, shaking her head disbelievingly, lost for words. “You reckless, stupid,  _ selfish-  _ I’ve lost too much to lose you now. I won’t have it! You can’t pull this kind of shit, Potter! We’re meant to be a team, and you can’t just go off gallivanting on your own adventures, I mean it!”

  
  


Unwilling to hear criticism of either himself or Sirius when  _ Sirius was alive _ , and everything was  _ okay _ , James retorted, “I’d say our little adventure turned out to be quite profitable, though, wouldn’t you say?”

  
  


Lily looked at him disbelievingly. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, seeming to gather herself, and then stood up, gesturing to Remus.

  
  


“You can take care of this one,” she jabbed her finger violently in James’ direction, “and make sure he gets patched up and gets safely home. I am going to get out of here before I-” she mimed throttling someone, “and get some rest. I’ll file the mission report to make it up to you.”

  
  


Remus nodded mildly.  _ Traitor _ , James thought mutinously.

  
  


Lily turned back to him. “You”, she intoned in a slow and measured voice, “can take some time to think about how you’re going to apologize later, and how you’re going to start taking some responsibility and doing the right thing. Don’t Floo me until you’ve decided to grow up a bit.” She turned on the spot and Disapparated with a crack. Dorcas let out a low whistle.

  
  


Remus looked wistfully at the floor where she had been standing.

  
  


“You’ve really gone and bungled this one up, Prongs.”

  
  


“Yeah,” said James, a grim realization and incredible shame now poking through the inebriation of his giddy joy, “Yeah, I really have.”


	2. Chapter 2

“Er - excuse me, where do you keep the broom cleaning kits?”

  
  


“Just around at the back, next to the polish. Big sign that says ‘FLEETWOOD’S POLISH” right there, you can’t miss it.” The man at the desk attempted, and failed, to give Lily a warm smile as he pointed over her shoulder.

  
  


“Ah, I think I see it. Thanks!”

  
  


Lily awkwardly shuffled away toward the back of the shop, moving toward the large glowing sign. Quality Quidditch Supplies was not an establishment that she had ever been in before, and she did not think it was one that she would be coming to again. The entire shop reminded her of everything she had disliked about Quidditch at Hogwarts. For one thing, it was full of aggressive muscle-heads, shoving each other about in some sort of homoerotic pre-modern ritual as they fought to get their hands on the latest edition of Quidditch Weekly. The ones who weren’t fighting were chatting to each other using a mixture of incomprehensible names and numbers - the Lincolnshire Lynx’s had apparently fouled someone rather terribly by ‘blagging’ yesterday, and Mr Twirly Moustaches clearly thought that everyone in the shop could do with listening to his thoughts on it - why else would he be shouting his part of the conversation with Mr Rippling Pectorals?

  
  


The worst of it all, though, was definitely the disgusting display of luxury that accompanied the whole sport, and was very much present here. Rich, spoiled children danced from one glass case to another, smudging the containers as they pushed their piggy little noses into them to better see the prized broomsticks within. Their parents, typically imperious old purebloods, walked in a more comported, but equally repulsive, fashion a few feet behind. 

  
  


Lily had always hated this particular aspect of Quidditch the most. It had never made sense to her that children were allowed to own and use their own brooms for House matches at Hogwarts. From the little she understood, some models were clearly superior to others. Top-of-the-line brooms frequently cost the earth, and precious few save the heirs to majestic pureblood houses could afford them. How on earth could the competition be considered fair? It was no big mystery why there were very rarely any top tier Muggle-born or half-blood talents in Hogwarts Quidditch teams (Ted Tonks, the Hufflepuff Beater in Lily’s first year, had been a notable exception - but unfortunately not one that she had been old enough to appreciate the significance of at the time) - not only did they not have the years of practise that purebloods did, but they simply couldn’t afford the brooms. 

  
  


As a woman, a Muggle-born, and someone who hailed from a working-class family in Cokeworth, Lily felt that she could not be more of an alien in the shop. She was certain that, any minute now, someone would walk up, note that she was not the typical snobby rich pureblooded boy which made Quality Quidditch Supplies his weekly haunt, and ask her to leave the establishment.

  
  


_ You’re right _ , Lily pictured herself weakly protesting,  _ but my boyfriend is. _

  
  


It really was pathetic, no matter which way you looked at it. Lily tutted. To think that with all of her principles and ideas, she had ultimately fallen for a privileged little Quidditch jock. However, even as she mentally chided herself for her complete and absolute failure to live up to her fourth year self’s passionate proclamations and fiery pronouncements against Quidditch and all its ilk, she could not help but smile. She was so very lucky to have James.

  
  


Which, unfortunately, brought her mind back to why she was here. She sighed. She knew that she hadn’t been entirely fair to James at the end of their last mission, and that her sudden departure and harsh words would no doubt have hurt him immensely. She definitely still believed that she had generally been in the right - James had no business putting himself in unnecessary danger, not now that they were together, not now that they were to be married, that they were a  _ team _ . 

  
  


And yet, she also knew that it was unfair to expect the person that James was to change into someone else entirely for her. She knew, getting into the relationship (and long before it), that James and The Rules had never had an entirely functional or mutually respectful relationship, and that was unlikely to change going forward. She also knew that James had only fallen into the danger that he had because of Sirius’ usual hairbrained antics. Chiding and scolding him after the mission was definitely merited, but it could have been done with less fire in her admonishment.

  
  


But when she had seen James there, battered, bruised, helpless in the sky - but still proud, still brave, still pulsing with impossible courage all the way through the end, her heart had stopped beating. His broken face, eyes closed tightly and head jerked desperately away from Sirius - Lily knew that the image would haunt her for the rest of her life. She was a naturally empathetic person, and cared deeply for the people she loved. There was nobody she loved more than James now - and no hurt more severe than what had shown on his face.

  
  


And when she had seen Bellatrix Lestrange, her blood had turned to ice. Although Bellatrix had been in her final year during Lily’s first at Hogwarts, it was her first encounter with the witch. All that she knew of the dusky-eyed and manic woman who had stood before her had been stories from others in the Order. By all accounts, Bellatrix was one of the most dangerous practitioners of the Dark Arts in Britain, a second only to Voldemort himself. To know that James -  _ her James  _ \- had been at the mercy of her wand, that he could have  _ died _ . Lily’s Stunning Charm at that moment had been the strongest she could ever remember forming - had it connected, the damage would probably have been fatal.

She could not lose James. The possibility was unthinkable. There had been too much pain in her world already. The attack on Cokeworth and the deaths of her parents had left her with an anguish that would not subside. Daedalus Diggle, a kindly old gentleman in the Order, had tried to comfort her by telling her that she was not alone, and that all of their comrades had scars. Lily wished that she had scars - a scar meant that the wound had closed, that the blood had been staunched. But Lily’s pain kept pouring and gushing. She had lost more and more than she had ever known herself to have. 

  
  


She could not lose James. And so, even though she was still more than a little angry and frustrated with him, she had braved her way through her prejudice and come to find him an apology gift from Diagon Alley. He had mentioned off-hand a few days ago that he needed a new kit for his broomstick, and Lily knew that he would be happy that she had remembered. He had always been very appreciative of the little things. Perhaps he would be less likely to be angry at her and more willing to make things work if she made it up to him.

  
  


Lily located a suitable looking cleaning kit (not that she knew very much about it - but it was just a broomstick, after all. How technical could it be?) paid for it at the counter, and thankfully shuffled out of the shop into the chilly December morning. Bracing herself with a deep breath, she turned on the spot and Disapparated, only to re-appear at the door of the apartment that James shared with Sirius and Remus. Forcing the unpleasant fears of abandonment to the back of her mind, Lily raised her hand and knocked at the door.

  
  


  
  


\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

  
  
  


It was Sirius who opened the door, an eyebrow lazily cocked in surprise.

  
  


“I certainly didn’t expect to see you here,” he said in his typical haughty drawl, but Lily could sense a hidden edge to it. 

  
  


“I’m here for James.” 

  
  


“Is that so?” he leaned idly against the doorframe. “Pardon me for asking - just need to keep everything straight in my head - was it some  _ other _ bad-tempered redhead who told Prongs he could stick his knob where the sun didn’t shine?”

Lily sighed deeply. “I didn’t mean it.”

  
  


Sirius smiled slightly. “I know that, you silly little idiot,” he ruffled her hair affectionately. “Unfortunately, Prongs isn’t quite as good as I am at separating feeling from circumstance. You’re going to have an uphill climb ahead of you.” He stepped away from the door, beckoning Lily in. “Don’t think this means I’m not still a bit miffed at you, by the way. Being emotional is no excuse for railing on my best mate like that - I don’t care if it’s your time of the month,” he said, wagging an accusing finger at her.

  
  


“Don’t I get points for saving your sorry hide?” Lily asked, primly ignoring the implications of Sirius’ statement.

  
  


“Psh, I’d have had Bella flat on the floor and begging for mercy in another half minute,” Sirius said, grinning easily at her. “Mind you, though - if any of you three was useful, I’d bet it was Meadowes. That girl’s Stunners could put down a Welsh Greenback.” He laughed as Lily rudely stuck her tongue out at him.

  
  


They walked into the living room - James’ room was just across the hall now. Only partly to delay her uncomfortable encounter, Lily asked, “Are you doing alright, now? It was a nasty looking spell she got you with.”

  
  
  


Sirius’ face darkened almost imperceptibly for a moment before he replied, “Nothing that bitch hasn’t cursed me with before. Dromeda’s nursed me through some of Bella’s uglier creations before, and I’ve picked up some tricks to make dealing with the aftermath easier.” His face lightened and his tone turned teasing, “Let’s not pretend that that matters, though. Oh no,  _ you’re _ just trying to put off having to say sorry to an angry and unreasonable Prongs. Well, darling, I’m really not on your side in this whole affair - I’m afraid I’m going to have to cut this conversation short and fling you in the lion’s den.” He put a hand on Lily’s back and slowly began to steer her towards James’ room.

  
  


“I hate you so much.”

  
  


“I’m terribly hurt. Now,” he flung the door open and shouted loudly, “Prongs! Your lady love has arrived to plead for absolution! Don’t be too hard on her, you angry wanker - but do make her beg a little. I’ll be off now.” He walked away, whistling merrily as he went, banging the front door of the flat shut as he exited.

  
  


Lily stood frozen in front of the open room, her gift clutched tightly in her hand. Her mind raced with worries about how angry James could be - what could she say or do to make things better? Grimly, she resolved that she would not be above the underhanded tactic of seduction if the situation grew dire.

  
  


That was, if James ever exited the room.

  
  


“Er - James?” Lily called softly at the door, “are you coming?”

  
  


“Erm - what exactly is going on?” Remus asked mildly, walking into the room, a mug of tea in one hand and a book tucked beneath his elbow.

  
  


“I’ve come to apologize to James for the… you know,” Lily gestured vaguely.

  
  


“Right.” Remus’ eyebrows furrowed. He seemed confused.

  
  


“Is something the matter?” 

  
  


“Well - I suppose it might be a good time to mention that James is out?” Remus ventured, gently.

  
  


“Out?” Lily blinked. “What do you mean?”

  
  


“Well - typically, it means that the person in question isn’t in the domicile,” Remus explained, the beginnings of a smirk on his face.

  
  


“I  _ know _ what out means, you supercilious arse, I just meant - Sirius said?”

  
  


“Ah, yes,” Remus nodded gravely, “I did rather wonder why Sirius was shouting the house down. I don’t suppose it’s occurred to you yet that you’ve been had?” he said quizzically.

  
  


“I’m going to kill him. I’m going to put my fingers around his neck and throttle him until his face is blue,” said Lily, in a matter-of-fact sort of way. “He’s a dead man walking.”

Her firm monologue was met with the sound of the front door opening, and then banging loudly shut. 

  
  


“It looks as though you won’t have to wait very long,” said Remus, pleasantly.

  
  


Sirius walked into the room, beaming. He strode over to Remus, entirely ignoring Lily. “Well, how did it go?” he asked. “Did she stand there looking miserable the whole while?  _ Please _ tell me she tried to apologize to an empty room.” That settled it. Lily wasn’t going to throttle him. She was going to slowly disembowel him - one vital organ at a time - while keeping him conscious through it all with a few handily placed charms.

  
  


Remus rolled his eyes. “She did nothing of the sort, you mangy mutt,” he said, rapping Sirius firmly on the head with his book, “and you really need to start being a bit more sensitive.”

  
  


“Probably,” said Sirius, nodding saintly. 

  
  


“You’re the biggest tosspot I’ve ever met, Black,” said Lily, shaking her head frustratedly.

  
  


“Someone’s got to give your life colour,” Sirius smirked, “and now that Prongs is all sweet on you, it’s certainly not going to be - stop that!” He cut off to avoid another assault at the hands of Remus and his book.

  
  


“Really, Sirius,” Remus sighed. “You have got to start-” 

  
  


The front door swung wildly open, and a loud voice announced “I’m home!”, cutting Remus off mid-sentence.

  
  


Lily felt her heart sink to her feet. 

  
  


“I’ve been waiting all day for you, honey!” Sirius called out in a squeaky falsetto.

  
  


James turned the corner into the living room, laughing, “Seriously, Pads, the neighbours are going to start to thin- Oh, er - hi?” He said, suddenly noticing Lily’s presence.

  
  


“This is going to be amazing,” said Sirius, smiling widely, “I cannot  _ wait _ to see how this is going to unfold.”

  
  


“Unfortunately, you’re not going to find out,” said Remus, grabbing Sirius’ shoulder, and Disapparating them away, the loud  _ crack! _ drowning out the latter’s protestations.

  
  


Lily gulped awkwardly and looked everywhere except at James.

  
  


“So…,” began James, when it became clear that Lily wasn’t about to say anything, “I think we should… talk?”

  
  


“Um, right…,” Lily nodded weakly. Then, worried about the frailty of her response, she compensated by nodding with an unusual amount of vigour. James seemed concerned. “Talking. Talking is good!”

  
  


“Right…,” James looked mildly concerned, but continued anyway. “So, I guess the first thing I want to say is that I’m sorry-”

  
  


“What?”

  
  


“-and that I never should have said any of those things - Wait, what do you mean, ‘what?’?”

  
  


“You’re sorry?” asked Lily confusedly.

  
  


“Er- yeah?” said James, shuffling his feet awkwardly. “You know, for being a class A git and saying - all those things?” He crossed his eyes in confusion, “Should I not be?”

  
  


“No!- I mean, yes, I’m so  _ so  _ glad you are, but - this is definitely not what I expected,” the words came out of Lily’s mouth in a jumble.

  
  


“What did you expect, then?” asked James, the beginnings of an amused smile on his face.

  
  


“Well - Sirius may have led me to believe you were incredibly angry with me?”

  
  


James’ expression darkened. “That  _ wanker,”  _ he said, shaking his head in disbelief, then grimacing and walking over to Lily. “Lily,” he said, taking her hand, “I’m not angry at you. I’ve been tearing my hair out because I’ve been thinking you’re angry at  _ me.  _ Look!” he said, gesturing at a parcel he’d left at the entrance to the room, “I’ve been out all day looking to get you a present to make it up to you!”

  
  


The tension was leaving Lily’s body in waves now, and she could feel a helpless smile on her face. “Don’t be stupid. I’m not angry.”

  
  


“In fairness, you did give me a good reason to believe it.” The same crooked smile was mirrored on his face now.

  
  


“Oh my God, I am  _ so _ sorry about that, I had no  _ idea-” _

  
  


“No, no, no! I’m sorry, I should  _ never _ have said - any of those things! They were terrible and I don’t know what I was thinking…”

  
  


All of a sudden, they were hugging fervently, and their apologies trailed off into the background. Lily squeezed him tighter.

  
  


“I was so afraid...”

  
  


“I know, I know - I’m sorry. It won’t happen again - we’re a team, I promise...”

  
  


“I thought I’d lost you...”

  
  


James pulled away from her for a moment, holding her head in his hands, peering deeply into her eyes. “You’ll never lose me, Lily,” he said. “I’m yours - forever. And I’m not going anywhere.” He pulled her back in.

  
  


“This is bloody well unfair,” Lily sniffed into his shirt, eyes red. 

  
  


“What is?”

  
  


“You being so good at this - apology - thing,” she said. “I came here thinking I’d give a whole long apology, and a gift, and you’d be mad, and I’d have to pretend I wasn’t upset, and…” she trailed off, sighing happily and shaking her head, “and you just made everything better.”

  
  


“I am rather good at it,” said James, puffing out his chest, “aren’t I?”

  
  


“Shut up,” laughed Lily, slapping him playfully.

  
  


“Want to see what else I’m good at, Evans?” he asked, waggling his eyebrows suggestively.

  
  


“You’re an animal,” she responded primly. “But let’s go,” she said, laughing again, following her boyfriend back to his room, secure once more in his love. 


	3. Chapter 3

“That,” said Dorcas, rolling off of Remus and onto her side of the bed, “was wonderful.”

  
  


“It certainly was,” Remus smiled, basking in the afterglow. 

  
  


He pulled himself up into a seated position, leaning slightly against the ornate wooden headboard. “Pretty nice habitation you’ve got for yourself over here,” he said, running his hands through the fine silk bed sheets.

  
  


Dorcas rolled her eyes. “Old pureblood family, one daughter - I think you probably get the idea.” She rose languorously to her feet, still gloriously naked. “Good thing Mum and Dad are six feet under - don’t think they’d be too happy to see the lone scion of the House Meadowes defiling the ancestral bed with a werewolf.” She frowned at the bed thoughtfully. “You know, I was probably made on that old thing.”

  
  


Remus, who had jerked his hands gingerly away from the bedsheets upon hearing the word ‘ancestral’, grimaced. “You really didn’t have to go and put that image in my head. I  _ have _ seen photos of Meadowes Senior in the papers, you know.”

  
  


“You’ve enjoyed the merchandise,” said Dorcas, laughing. “It seems only right that you spare a thought for the craftsman.”

  
  


“ _ Meadowes. _ ”

  
  


“Fine, fine, I’ll stop yanking your chain,” Dorcas said, rolling her eyes again. She seemed to do that an awful lot. “And stop staring at me, you perv. I don’t have time for another round,” she stood up, stretching. Remus felt that life was suddenly being very kind to him. “I’ve got to go shower now if I want to be able to squeeze in breakfast before work. See you in a few.” 

  
  


Soon the sounds of running water and Dorcas singing a merry tune came coursing through the bathroom door. Remus slowly dragged himself out of bed and began to pull his clothes on, thinking as he did.

  
  


It had been quite a lot of fun, really. Dorcas had turned out to be quite an alright sort of girl, even if she was five years his senior. He could imagine Sirius turning red with jealousy at the thought of his latest exploit - in second year, the Black heir had pronounced the then Head Girl to be ‘sex on heels’. The sorry tosser would probably go and sleep with the nearest attractive woman to try to one-up him.

  
  


It was, Remus thought, a rather crass response. Personally, he would never have done it. But then, he’d always had a  _ bit _ more respect for civility, feminism, and all manner of abstract concepts than Sirius “Okay But Can It Fly?” Black. Although his tryst with Dorcas was just that - a harmless, meaningless tryst, Remus did not see her as a purely sexual object or a means to an end. She was a lovely girl, they’d had a great time talking after an Order meeting, and he’d slept with her, and that was that.

  
  


_ Although… _

  
  


If, by any chance,  _ Dorcas  _ wanted something to happen between them, Remus wouldn’t be entirely averse to it. She had already cleared the greatest hurdle - being aware of his condition - without any concerns. Still, she’d given no indication that she saw this as anything more than a one-time shag. But still…

  
  


He frowned, shaking his head, trying to brush away the intrusive thoughts that he knew he ought not to entertain. They were both soldiers in a war, and could not afford to become attached. It was all very well for James, who was such an idealistic romantic that he probably  _ actually thought _ that true love conquered everything, even death, but Remus had to be a bit more pragmatic than that.

  
  


Come to think of it, James would probably wet himself hearing that Remus, sweet Moony of the one-night-stands, was even considering a closer-than-platonic relationship. Sappy little git, Remus thought, happily.

  
  


Still - the point was clear - either Dorcas or himself could find themselves hurt at any moment. Pursuing anything with her could lead to disaster. Remus knew himself well enough to know that he did not want to open himself up to the pain of losing anyone. The anxiety that Sirius and James put him through was enough already.

  
  


His eyes strayed to Dorcas’ wand, a small blackthorn stick lying idly on her bedside dresser. In fairness, Dorcas was extremely unlikely to be hurt. Although she was young, she was among the most formidable duelists in the Order. She had beaten Dolohov, once duelled Bellatrix Lestrange to a draw, and - in a recent mission - managed to escape Voldemort himself. She was  _ good _ , and her sultry charms did little to conceal the fact that she could have Remus with his back to the wall in seconds if she wanted to.

  
  


He shook his head again, pulling the last of his clothes on. He really had to stop entertaining this train of thought.

  
  


\---------------------------------------------------------

  
  


“So,” said Dorcas, through a mouthful of omelette, “I’ve a question for you.”

  
  


“What might that be?” 

  
  


“Do you do this often?”

  
  


“This?” asked Remus.

  
  


“You know,” Dorcas waved a hand vaguely towards him, then back at herself. “ _ This. _ ”

  
  


“Ah,” Remus nodded understandingly. “Fair bit.”

  
  


Dorcas arched a brow. “Really?” she asked, leaning forward, examining him critically. “You don’t seem the type. How many girls?”

  
  


Remus blushed. “Er - I’m, not - that is to say… I don’t exactly remember.”

  
  


Dorcas blinked at him, nonplussed. Then she let out an energetic hoot of laughter. “You  _ can’t remember! _ ” she squealed, struggling to keep it together, “the quiet little Lupin boy is such a playboy that he can’t keep track of how many birds he’s shagged? That is just too good!” She wiped a tear of mirth from her eye. “Although,” she added, a finger in her mouth, eyes turned upward in sudden thought, “with that technique, I can’t say I’m surprised.”

  
  


Remus turned red and sputtered, “Really, I don’t think that-”

  
  


“Come on now, you weren’t so shy just a little while ago,” Dorcas grinned. “But, you know, I had another question to ask you.”

  
  


Remus eyed her warily. “And what might that be?”

  
  


“Do you want to do this again?” asked Dorcas. “I mean, I get it, you might be one of those - ‘I don’t do dating, just sex, no feelings’ types, but I just realized I really like hanging out with you, and I thought a girl might as well ask.” 

  
  


There was a kind warmth in her smile, and Remus heard himself responding almost before he knew he’d spoken.

  
  


“Yeah, I’d love that.”

  
  


And as he said it, he realized, belatedly, that he really would.

  
  



	4. Chapter 4

  
  


“You’re a traitor, Wormtai!. A no-good, two-faced backstabber, and the reason that James is dead!”

  
  


“I had no choice! You have to understand, this is different - I swear!”

  
  


“I can’t trust you, you little rat,” Sirius jabbed his finger viciously at Peter. “Who’s to say that, if I  _ do  _ give you Australia, you won’t just turn on me when I’m left defenseless?”

  
  


“I won’t!” squeaked Peter indignantly. “Besides,” he said, pointing at the yellow pieces all over the board, “if you don’t give me Australia, Moony’s just going to run over us both!”

  
  


“He’s not wrong,” Remus remarked calmly.

  
  


“Shut up, Moony.”

  
  


“Nobody likes a sore loser, Prongs. Also - remember the house rule. Ghosts can’t communicate like that.”

  
  


“ _ Wooo wooo wooo,” _ James grumbled from the corner of the room, the designated ‘graveyard’ for the vanquished.

  
  


Sirius sighed and shook his head despondently, seeming to have finally come to the conclusion that Peter knew he would have no choice but to reach.

  
  


“Fine, Wormy. I’ll move my troops - you can have Australia.”

  
  


“Cheers.”

  
  


“I’m not so sure this is the wisest course of action for you, Pads,” Remus cautioned. Peter cheered internally - there was nothing surer to make Sirius go all in than the current favourite telling him it was inadvisable. 

  
  


“You think so?” asked Sirius cheerfully, moving his hand to his troops. “Well, why don’t you stick that advice up your-”

  
  


“Sirius, don’t! - I mean,  _ Woo wooo woo woo!”  _ interrupted James, waggling his hands dramatically in warning.

  
  


“Relax, Prongs - Moony’s just panicked because he’s going to lose.” Sirius was smirking now. Peter had to try very hard not to follow suit. Sirius moved his hand forward, dragging his pieces slowly away from Australia.

  
  


“I really don’t think…,” muttered Remus silently.

  
  


“ _ Woo woo woo!”  _ cautioned James.

  
  


“Remus John Lupin,” Sirius smiled winningly, “this is the beginning of the end for you. Deeday has begun.” He moved away the rest of his pieces. “Your turn, Pete,” he said, leaning back in satisfaction. “Let’s show this hairy werewolf what happens when he tries to take over the world.”

  
  


“Great,” said Peter, reaching for the dice. “I attack India.”

  
  


“Here we go,” said Remus.

  
  


“ _ Woo wooo woo _ ,” said James, the unmistakable inflection of an  _ I-told-you-so _ in his voice.

  
  


“...,” Sirius looked on blankly, the weight of the betrayal having wiped all emotion from his face.

  
  


“I did try to warn you,” Remus offered consolingly.

  
  


“Wormtail,” Sirius sputtered, “what- how, I don’t - why are you doing this?” 

  
  


“Sorry, Pads.”

  
  


“You can’t  _ win _ like this, you stupid arse! Stop right now and we can still beat Remus!”

  
  


“There’s no way Moony loses here.”

  
  


“But you can’t win like this, you backstabbing renegade!” said Sirius, incensed.

  
  


Peter shrugged. “Still better than not losing.”

  
  


“Well,” said Peter, a few minutes later, all of Sirius’ territories successfully captured. “That seems to be about it. You’re happy to just take the first, Remus?” The latter graciously nodded. “It’s been a good game, lads!”

  
  


“Can I talk again now?”

  
  


“Sit  _ right _ back down - Moony, Wormtail,” said Sirius venomously, ignoring James. “We’re playing again, and this time I’m not paying any heed to promises of alliance from this snake in the grass.” He shot Peter a withering look. Peter shrugged.

  
  


“Do we really  _ have  _ to-”

  
  


“ _ Sit _ ,” Sirius silenced Remus’ protestations with an aristocratic wave of his hand.

  
  


_ CRACK!. _

  
  


The sound of Apparition cut through the room, causing all four men to jump to their feet, the board and pieces immediately forgotten.

  
  


“Messy situation in Knockturn Alley,” Frank Longbottom poked his head through the kitchen doorway. “ Moody’s already there with a few others, but he’s outnumbered. We’re going to be needing as many wands as we can get, lads.”

  
  


James nodded, a sudden serious determination setting into his face. “Where do we Apparate to?” 

  
  


“The alley beside Borgin and Burkes. You know it? Good.” 

  
  


“Who’s there?” asked Sirius, fingering his wand with ill-concealed agitation.

  
  


“We’re not sure yet,” said Frank darkly, “but I expect you’re probably acquainted with them.” 

  
  


Sirius smirked, but it was a poor imitation of his usual winning charm.

  
  


“I’ve got to go get the others - Remus, would you mind Apparating to Dorcas’ and getting her up to speed? We might need her if Lestrange ends up being involved.

  
  


Remus nodded, Disapparating.

  
  


“We’re going to need to ask him why he knows where Meadowes lives,” said Sirius, a small note of amusement creeping into his voice.

  
  


“Gossip on your own time, Black, we need to go!-”

  
  


“Um, Frank?”

  
  


“Yeah? Oh, sorry, right, Pettigrew. Forgot you can’t come. You got banged up pretty hard last time, didn’t you?” Frank’s eyes were warm and understanding. “You just stay here and heal up. The rest of us can handle it.” With a quick twirl, he was gone, Sirius and James following moments later.

  
  


Peter let out a deep sigh, feeling the tension drain slowly from his body. Of course, it was being replaced with guilt - but guilt had never been quite as hard a feeling to manage as fear.

Fear, by its very nature, was uncontrollable - impossible to manage. Guilt could be shunted away into a small corner of its heart.

  
  


His world had always had the dark cloud of terror hanging over it, from as far back as he could remember. It was his mother’s fault. Philomena Pettigrew had been a woman of many diverse qualities, but she had never been strong. 

  
  


When Peter’s father had left her on Peter’s fourth birthday, it had shattered her beyond repair. She had always had her quiet and sad moments - but when he had still been around, he had calmed her and soothed her through them. With his departure, they had grown immeasurably worse. No longer quiet and sad - they had become moments of tragedy and horrible terror, that young Peter had never been quite able to make sense of, but could still feel.

  
  


And so, fear had wormed its way into Peter’s life. Philomena was a witch, but a half-blood, and clung strongly to her Muggle religious heritage as a source of stability in those trying times.

  
  


“The Devil is abroad, my darling,” she had whispered to him, tucking him into bed, her eyes ever darting to the corners of the room.“And He will bring ruin to these lands.” And then she had broken down in uncontrollable and jerky sobbing, her tears dampening Peter’s thin blankets. “I can’t lose you too!”

  
  
  


Peter, wide-eyed and desperate to put others at ease, had hugged his mother’s head with his pudge little arms. “He won’t get me, Mama!” he had said, desperately trying not to think of Lucifer and his horde, “He won’t get me or you! I p-promise!.”

  
  


“No!” There had been a fervent desperation in his mother’s eyes. “No, my darling. Save nobody. God is not here - there are no heroes in this world. Only the Devil.” She had looked all around her, wild-eyed, as though monsters and demons were closing in from the shadows all about her. “No,  _ no _ …,” she whimpered, a hand clutched to her heart.

  
  


It was a sight that Peter had grown used to in the years to come. Though he had, like most wizards, shed those childish Muggle notions of gods and devils, he had never been able to shake the fundamental belief that his mother had raised him with - that theirs was a world marred, doomed, unsalvageable from the depths of incredible sin and awaiting infinite sorrow.

  
  


There was no point, then, to bravery. Peter had gone into the field of battle only once for the Order, and then too only because he had not had an excuse to avoid it. However, he had successfully managed to fake an injury in the scuffle, and had since been using it to beg off having to show up to any future fights. Like today’s.

  
  


Sirius had been contemptuous of him for it. “It’s only a scratch, Wormtail. Shouldn’t stop you giving those Death Eaters what they deserve. Grow up a little - we’re not in school anymore.”

  
  


Remus had given him a shy and understanding smile, but had not said anything.

It was James, as always, who had been kind and accepting. Peter had told him that, even apart from his wound, he was afraid. He had been shocked when James laughed, rather than mocking him, and bashfully admitted that he was too. But then he had squeezed Peter’s shoulder and told him that he was braver than he knew. “After all, Pete,” James’ smiled, “the Hat put you in Gryffindor for a reason. You’ve been by our side every time we’ve faced down a big old bully in Hogwarts. This is no different. It’s scary, yeah, and sometimes it’s so scary that I don’t know what to think - but then I remember that I was put in Gryffindor. And then I keep fighting. You can do it too. You’re just as brave as anyone.”

  
  
  


Peter opened his eyes, casting off his reminiscing, slowly taking in his surroundings. He was slumped against the wall, a messy board game before him, yesterday’s takeout still dirtying the dishes in the kitchen sink to his right, a hastily scrawled list of groceries on the table on the left. 

  
  


“ _ There are no heroes…” _

  
  


_ “The Devil is abroad.” _

  
  


_ “...put you in Gryffindor for a reason.” _

  
  
  


Peter pulled himself up, more afraid than he had ever been in his life. Palming his wand nervously, he closed his eyes and turned sharply. When he opened them again, he was in Knockturn Alley.

  
  



	5. Chapter 5

As he ducked his head to avoid another jet of red light, Remus wryly mused that, in spite of his various privileges, he was very unlikely to make it past the average werewolf lifespan.

  
  


“Moony,” said James, coughing through the soot and dust, “we’re surrounded!”

  
  


“I had noticed!” Remus called back. “What’s the plan?” 

  
  


“That alley there links back to the main street,” James pointed vaguely to the right. “I think there’s only two of them there.” He paused, coughing again. “We’re going to have to break through!”

  
  


Remus grimaced. He wasn’t fond of the idea of leaving their current hidey hole (a closed off space behind a pair of litter boxes), but he knew that they could only hide so much longer. He nodded at James.

  
  


“On three. One… two…  _ three! _ ”

  
  


The two of them leapt out from behind their paltry cover, Remus maintaining a powerful Shield Charm about them as James fired Stunners into the fog of war. Judging from answering shrieks, at least a few of them found their mark.

  
  


“Now!” James roared, dashing towards the alley. 

  
  


Two masked figures stepped forward from within the smoke, wands raised. Remus’ heart sank - they wouldn’t make it through. There were too many. The others would catch up.

  
  


“Now, Moony!” James’ voice shook him back to reality. The Death Eaters launched a salvo of hexes in their direction, but Remus expertly deflected them.

  
  


“Quickly, Prongs!” Time was of the essence. The other Death Eaters would catch up soon.

  
  


“I’m trying!” Sweat trailed down James’ face as he fired off Stunners and Exploding Charms at the duo, who seemed to deflect them with little difficulty.

  
  


Remus could see figures approaching from the corner of his eye. “James!” he called.

  
  


“Screw it,” said James, twirling his wand, a sudden look of intense concentration on his face. There was a sudden  _ poof _ of smoke before them. James beamed approvingly. “It worked! Let’s go!” He charged through towards the alley, now unimpeded. Remus followed, unable to see what had become of the Death Eaters, but grateful to be making it through. 

  
  


“ _ Baa! _ ” 

  
  


Remus frowned. It was the unmistakable sound of a goat bleating.

  
  


“Prongs… did you?-”

  
  


“Not a word, Moony.” James cut him off.

  
  


“ _ Both  _ of them?”

  
  


“Are you complaining?  _ Really?” _

  
  


Remus raised his hands in mock surrender at James as they made their way through the soot of the dingy street and back into the main section of Knockturn Alley, where most of the battle was still taking place. The size of the conflict had clearly grown since their little excursion - at least two thirds of the Order seemed to be present now. A chill ran down his spine. It was the largest battle Remus had ever witnessed.

  
  


“Prongs! Moony! Over here!” Remus looked for and found Sirius’ booming voice, calling their attention to where he stood with Fabian and Gideon Prewett, facing off against three masked Death Eaters. “Could use a hand!”

  
  


The duo dashed into the battle, reinforcing their friends’ faltering Shield Charms with their own.

  
  


“Nice little adventure the two of you seemed to be having - anything exciting?” Sirius panted, elegantly sending a jet of red light over his shoulder. In spite of his evident tiredness, his actions were graceful, and he seemed perfectly at home on the battlefield.

  
  


“Nothing to write home about,” smirked James, “how’re we holding up here?”

  
  


“Not good,” answered Fabian, the stocky older Prewett sibling.

  
  


“They’re being overwhelmed,” added Gideon, looking back at the fray in concern. His eyes met Fabian’s, and a silent look of understanding passed between them. He turned back to Sirius. “Fab and I are going to draw these three away from the fight - you lot go and reinforce the rest of the crew.”

  
  


“You sure about that?” asked James. “You’ll be outnumbered.”

  
  


“Don’t worry about it,” said Fabian, “they’re not that good. We might not be able to take ‘em out, but we should at least be able to hold them off while you lads help turn the rest of the fight in our favour.” He cut off, swearing as he avoided a particularly ferocious Stinging Hex. “You can come rescue us when you’re done.”

  
  


“Okay, then.” James looked unconvinced, but assented regardless.

  
  


“Good luck, lads!” Gideon saluted, ducking into a run as he and Fabian led the knot of Death Eaters away.

  
  


“Don’t come crying when there aren’t any left for you to clean up over here, boys!” Sirius called out mockingly as they left. Remus frowned. He opened his mouth to chastise Sirius, when the world suddenly seemed to explode in flame.

  
  


“Moony!”

  
  


\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

  
  


James saw it coming a second before it happened. The Death Eater Apparated just a few feet from them, and blue flame blossomed forth from the tip of his wand, which was pointed at Remus. Before the fire transformed from trickle to inferno, James shouted his friend’s name and tackled him to the ground, landing unceremoniously atop him. The two of them were on their feet again almost immediately, James loosing a Tickling Hex in the direction of their new assailant, who casually deflected it. James grabbed Remus’ shoulder and ran, leading the two of them down another one of Knockturn Alley’s myriad tributaries. His heart thudding, he turned corner after corner as they made their way deep into the labyrinthine maze of criss-crossing streets. As they turned the final corner, he felt his stomach sink - it was a dead end.

  
  


“That was a pretty chase you led me down, sons.”

  
  


James’ blood froze. He knew that voice - that gruff, bestial drawl. He turned slowly.

  
  


“Well, well, well,” continued Greyback, his massive form seeming almost to completely block the entrance to the street. “I didn’t think I’d be seeing you again, pup.” His eyes glinted ominously from behind the silver mask.

  
  


James felt Remus stiffen beside him. “Who is that, Prongs?” whispered Remus.

  
  


“That voice…” Greyback took a step forward, a child-like wonder in his tone. “I remember that voice…” He raised a hand to his face, slowly pulling away his mask. “I remember it asking me to stop.” He took another step. “No. I remember it  _ begging _ .” His dreadful visage was visible now - the scarred face, the brutal yellow eyes, the perverse grin - they had haunted James’ nightmares for years. “I remember it crying for Mummy to make it stop.”

  
  


“Y-you…” Remus’ words came out in sputtered gasps, his breathing suddenly shaky. “It’s you-” he cut off, bringing a hand to his chest, trying to steady himself.

  
  


“Me,” a wild smile spread across Greyback’s battered face. 

  
  


Remus took a deep breath, and, in what James thought to be his friend’s bravest moment, steadied himself, raising his wand at Greyback, a cold determination now set in his eye.

  
  


“Now, now, pup,” snarled Greyback, “that’s no way to greet your sire.”

  
  


“My father died a long time ago,” Remus’ voice was chilly. “You killed him.”

  
  


“That’s not what I heard,” Greyback’s eyes glinted darkly. “I heard Lyall Lupin killed himself.”

  
  


“ _ Diffindo!”  _

  
  


_ “Protego!” _

  
  


Remus’ spell was immediately blocked by Greyback, who leered excitedly in response. “Powerful, pup… Very powerful.” He wordlessly shot a jet of yellow light at Remus, who flicked his wand, causing it to dissipate into nothingness an inch from his chest. “But are you powerful enough, I wonder?  _ Avada Ke-” _

  
  


“ _ Avis! _ ” James stepped in, conjuring and directing a flock of birds to interrupt Greyback’s spell. Greyback Stunned the birds wordlessly, causing most of them to fall to the ground. The one remaining bird fluttered frantically in front of him in a desperate bid to escape. Greyback’s eyes gleamed. His jaw snapped, and the gore of the unfortunate bird was spread across the street, staining it a messy red.

  
  


“You’ve grown stronger too, James Potter,” Greyback advanced. “I can’t just bat your silly schoolboy hexes aside now, can I?.”

  
  


James felt the familiar fear, and desperately willed it to stay down, but it crept to the surface regardless. 

  
  


“But I can still hurt you, pup.” Greyback crooned. “And this time, Dumbledore isn’t here to protect you.”

  
  


“ _ Reducto!”  _ the force of Remus’ spell knocked Greyback backward, even through his hastily conjured Shield Charm. The Death Eater growled angrily, stretching himself up to his full height. 

  
  


James steeled himself. If Moony could face down the monster from his childhood nightmares, then he would be right there next to him, taking him on. 

  
  
  


_ The Hat put me in Gryffindor for a reason _ .

  
  
  


Emboldened, James stepped forward to join Remus, and the two of them engaged Greyback in earnest, exchanging spells with increasing ferocity. It became immediately apparent that, although the Death Eater could not easily overwhelm them, he was slowly gaining ground. Their combined defenses could not seem to stop his onslaught, and he slowly advanced with each mysterious yellow burst that coursed from his wand.

  
  


“ _ Protego!”  _ Remus and James called out in unison. A glowing aegis formed before them, thrumming with power.

  
  


“Not enough!” bellowed Greyback, and he thrust his head back and howled. The shield produced a sudden screeching noise, like nails grating slowly against a chalkboard, before suddenly fizzing out of existence. “ _ Mine!” _ he roared, and Remus and James’ wands flew out of their hands, falling uselessly behind them.

  
  


Greyback threw his head to the sky and laughed raucously. “I can feel the blood thrumming in my veins,” he said, smiling widely. “This is what life is meant for!” He raised his wand again. “Sorry, cubs. A few years older and you might have stood a chance.”

  
  


James clutched at Remus. “Moony,” he said, struggling to keep the panic from his voice.

  
  


“Prongs,” replied Remus, blankly.

  
  


“ _ James! _ ” A scream cut across the alley. Greyback suddenly tensed, his hackles raised. He jumped to the left, narrowly avoiding the sudden Blasting Hex which reduced the pavement to rubble.

  
  


“Lily!” It was impossible that James could ever hear her voice and not know it at once for its unmistakable passion. 

  
  


She sprinted rapidly down the cobbled street, loosing volley after volley of powerful Charms at Greyback. The werewolf deflected them, but with far less ease than he had Remus and James’. Lily’s offense was absolute - Greyback did not dare to attack for a moment, for fear of a stray spell breaking through his rapidly weakening shields. His cocky sangfroid was gone, replaced by a sudden perspiration and panic. James stood in a reverie as he watched Lily duel - beautiful and fierce and unrelenting.

“Prongs!” He snapped out of it to see Remus’ hand outstretched, James’ wand arcing through the air towards him, and he caught it neatly with his well-honed Chaser’s reflexes. 

  
  


“ _ Diffindo!” _

  
  


_ “Relashio!” _

  
  


The combined strength of the sudden three-way assault proved too much for Greyback’s defenses. His shield shattered, and the power of the spells slammed his back forcefully against a wall. Lily closed in from the right, the beginnings of a Cordage Charm glowing at the top of her wand. Greyback bounced off the wall, his muscular body immediately reorienting itself, briskly firing a Blasting Hex at the floor, causing a sudden explosion of soot and rubble. James coughed wildly and waved his hands in front of his face, trying to clear away the smog.

  
  


“ _ Evanesco _ ,” said Lily. Her spell immediately cleared the scenery, and James found that he could breathe again.

  
  


“Where is he?” asked Remus, looking around wildly.

  
  


James spied Greyback’s figure fleeing into the distance, far away from the trio. “He’s running that way,” he pointed. “Thanks,” he added bashfully, turning to Lily. “That was amazing.”

  
  


She rewarded him with a small smile. “Don’t mention it.”

  
  


“Prongs! Moony!” Sirius and Benjy Fenwick came running down the street, the former immediately pulling James into a tight embrace. “Thank Merlin you lot are alright.”

  
  


“It’s all thanks to Lily,” said Remus quietly. “Greyback almost had us, but she got him.” His voice was tight and strained.

  
  


“Greyback?” said Benjy. “Where is he?”

  
  


“He went that way,” James pointed again. “Couldn’t handle Lil, so it looks like he turned tail and fled.”

Benjy’s face darkened, and he exchanged a meaningful look with Sirius. A sudden realization seemed to dawn on Remus as well, as a horrified look crept onto his face.

  
  


“Er - what’s the matter?” said James confusedly.

  
  


“That’s where Fab and Gid are,” said Benjy.

  
  


“Oh no,” whispered Lily.

  
  


James felt as though he’d been by a Bludger. The Prewetts were already handling three Death Eaters - the arrival of a fourth, and one as skilled as Greyback, would almost certainly lead to them being overcome.

  
  


“We have to get to them!” said Sirius, a rare uneasy note in his voice.

  
  


“Right,” nodded Benjy, but before the group could move, a silvery albatross came flying down the street toward them. 

  
  


“That’s Fab’s Patronus!” Sirius exclaimed. “He couldn’t have cast that if anything was wrong...right?” he petered off as he voiced his desperate hope, turning to look at the others. Remus and Benjy seemed to have relaxed a little. James tried to follow suit - the logic did seem obvious - the Patronus Charm, which relied on positive emotions, couldn’t possibly be conjured if things had gone wrong, could it?

  
  


And yet, even as the bird alighted before the group, he could not shake his sense of doom.

  
  


“Tell Molly and the kids that we love them. And let her know we’re sorry.” The echo of Fabian’s voice faded away, and an eternity seemed to pass before anyone spoke.

  
  


“ _ No _ …,” Lily trembled. James rushed to close his arms around her, drawing her toward him in a tight embrace, aching to give and seek comfort with the one he loved most.

  
  


The spell was broken. Remus shook his head sadly. Benjy swore loudly and kicked a wall. Sirius remained deathly quiet, his handsome dark eyes stretched open in shock and disbelief.

  
  


The Prewetts were gone. As day turned to dusk, it seemed to James that the setting sun drowned hope with it.


	6. Chapter 6

“Odds don’t look too good for us, Gid.”

“You’re telling me.”

“Merlin! That was close.”

“I don’t think we’re getting out of this one.”

“Yeah. Yeah, it doesn’t look like it.”

“We did good, didn’t we?”

A smile, stretching from one face to the next.

“The very best.”

“Expecto Patronum!”


	7. Chapter 7

“Dorcas,” said Remus, a note of warning in his voice.

  
  


“I know,” she replied. They wouldn’t be able to hold out much longer - the Death Eaters that they had been engaging successfully, up until a few minutes ago, had now had their numbers swelled by the addition of three new arrivals. To make matters worse, Antonin Dolohov, one of Voldemort’s most skilled assassins, was among them. 

  
  


“You should run!” she said, ducking beneath a jet of pale blue light. “I can hold them off while you escape.”

  
  


Remus shook his head obstinately, meeting her eyes for a split second - there was a grim determination set in his normally soft gaze. She felt her heart skip a beat. Then he rolled on the ground to avoid a Full Body-Bind, and the moment was lost.

  
  


“There’s no sense in the both of us dying, Lupin,” she growled.  _ Bloody Gryffindors _ .

  
  


He shrugged. It might almost have passed off as nonchalant, but she could see the tremor run down his spine. “You could always run.”

  
  


“Not a chance.”

  
  


He smiled. “On your head be it, Meadowes.” A flash of worry crossed his face, and he hastily incanted, “ _ Protego!” _ , causing the hex that almost hit her head to veer sharply off course as it bounced off his rapidly conjured shield.

  
  


“Thanks,” Dorcas blinked. 

  
  


“Don’t mention it,” he panted, kneeling low toward the ground. He was clearly low on stamina, and would soon collapse. Dorcas didn’t think she could save him now. The moment had passed. A grim realization set in her heart. They were both going to die.

  
  


A stray curse slipped past her defenses, catching her on the chest. She staggered backward, her senses ablaze with pain, and fell on her back, a foot away from where he knelt.

  
  


She didn’t know Remus Lupin very well yet, and couldn’t say that there was nobody else she would rather spend her last moments with. It was a pity. She wished that she could share those words with him - hear them come out of her mouth, and hear them echoed again in his pleasant voice. It would have been nice to die having been in love.

  
  


Still. It was something in itself that she would not die alone. It would have to be good enough. She reached out and took his hand and squeezed it as hard as she could.

  
  


_ CRACK! _

  
  


“Moony! Moony, over here!” a high pitched voice squeaked out from behind them. Dorcas turned her head to see a short, slightly pudgy wizard waving frantically at them.  _ Pettigrew _ , her tired brain supplied. With him stood Daedalus Diggle, Emmeline Vance, and  _ \- Merlin be praised, we’re going to be alright _ \- Alastor Moody.

  
  


She looked at Remus to see a huge smile form across his face, mirroring her own sudden jubilation. “Pete!”

  
  


The Death Eaters seemed hesitant, and looked as though they might flee. But ultimately, they stood their ground and advanced toward Dorcas and Remus. The possibility of eliminating two highly skilled duelists was too alluring to pass up on.

  
  


_ “Impedimenta! _ ” Moody dashed forward, his speed making him seem far younger than his fifty years. Four of the Death Eaters split away from the main group to face him, perhaps hoping to overwhelm him through sheer force of numbers. Daedalus Diggle seemed to have the same idea, and he rushed to Moody’s aid. Another two engaged Emmeline Vance, who strode forward with relaxed confidence, the sleeves of her robes pushed up past her forearms, wand held loosely by her side.

  
  


Which left just one. Dolohov advanced slowly toward her. His black eyes gleamed with malice. He pointed at a jagged scar on his left cheek. Dorcas had put it there a month ago, when she had tried to send a curse to slice his neck open.

  
  


“I believe it’s time for me to exact my rightful vengeance, Meadowes,” he said coldly. “Only I don’t intend to miss.”

  
  


“You’re going to have to get through me!” Peter Pettigrew squeaked. He’d run forward as he shouted, and stood now between Dolohov and Dorcas. 

  
  


“Peter...,” Remus gasped, breathless. “Get away from him… He’s too much for you.”

  
  


Peter’s eyes darted nervously toward Remus. His feet shuffled backward, as though prepared to run, but then settled resolutely in place. “You wouldn’t have said that to James or Sirius,” he said, quietly.

  
  


“I would… Peter,  _ please _ -”

  
  


“-Touching, but I don’t think we have the time,” said Dolohov, and flicked his wand sharply in Peter’s direction. “ _ Crucio _ .”

  
  


Peter’s shrill screaming rent through the air and he fell to the ground, his limbs jerking uncontrollably. A horrified expression contorted Remus’ face, and Dorcas saw tears well up in his eyes. Dolohov continued the spell for a few seconds, enjoying Peter’s agony with a tuneless hum, before finally releasing it. Peter quivered and twitched helplessly on the ground, his eyes glassy and staring blankly into the distance.

  
  


“I think,” said Dolohov, a note of fatigue in his voice, “that that ought to suffice for you.” He turned again to point his wand at Dorcas, and breathed deeply, squaring his shoulders. “ _ Avad-” _

  
  


“ _ Expulso!” _ Peter’s voice rang out hoarse but clear from the ground. Dolohov’s eyes widened, and he turned to Apparate, but he was too late. A blast of blue light drowned out Dorcas’ vision, and the boom of the explosion blocked her ears and left a dull ringing noise throbbing in her head. 

  
  


“Peter…,” she heard Remus’ gentle voice as her senses returned to her. Dorcas blinked and shook her head to clear the light from her eyes. Then she gasped.

  
  


The entire alley had been destroyed. The aged stone walls lay battered and broken, with large fragments scattered across the road. One boulder seemed to have been tossed what seemed to be hundreds of yards away. There was a large crater, several feet deep, in the ground a handful of feet away from them, where a pipe had burst, and was now spraying water several metres high into the air. Some of the spray made its way to Dorcas, wetting her face. The cool sensation gave her the clarity she needed to recover herself and stand up. 

  
  


To her right, Vance and Diggle appeared to be in similar states of shock, still lying on the ground, confusedly turning their heads. Diggle kept bringing his hand up before his eyes and flexing it experimentally, as though to test that his eyes reported the truth. Moody had been quicker to get to his feet, and had already taken advantage of the distraction to bind all four of his foes with hastily but well conjured ropes. Vance’s foes seemed to have taken the opportunity to Disapparate away, clearly unwilling to test their mettle against whatever wizard could produce a spell of that strength. Not many would happily face down a warlock that could rip apart the world with such feverish abandon.

  
  


Dorcas’ eyes moved, almost of their own accord, toward Peter Pettigrew. The short, round little man stood, shivering, a few steps ahead of them, drenched by the shower coming from the pipe, but made no attempt to remove himself from its spray. His teeth chattered, his hair was slick against his forehead, and his wand was still extended outward as though he had just cast his spell. Dolohov lay, apparently unconscious, a few feet away from him, blood flowing heavily from a large gash in his forehead.

  
  


“Well, boy,” said Moody, drawing toward them. One of his legs was wounded, and Dorcas thought she could see the white of his bone, but he dragged it forward anyway, as though it were a minor nuisance at best. He stepped next to Peter and thumped him on the back, breathing heavily. “Looks like you just helped us capture Antonin Dolohov.”

  
  


Peter smiled slightly, swaying on his feet. Then he promptly fainted. 


	8. Chapter 8

“How many wounded?”

  
  


“Near enough everyone’s got a scratch or two. Diggle’s been snivelling about his arm, but it’s nothing more than a scrape. Pettigrew’s at St. Mungo’s - nothing physical, though, he’s in for a case of magical exhaustion.” Moody gingerly adjusted his left leg. “Boy packs a punch. We’ve been underestimating him.”

  
  


“I rather think you have,” Dumbledore’s eyes twinkled merrily. He raised his glass and took a long draught of water. The fire in the corner of his office cast a dancing light onto the desk at which they sat, giving the room a cozy feeling. The meeting between the two had drawn on for nearly half an hour now. Still, it had been necessary - this was by far the largest Death Eater attack to date. It bore some thinking about.

  
  


“Is that everything, then?” Dumbledore pushed his chair back, preparing to rise. “You’re to be commended on your capture of so many Death Eaters, Alastor, particularly Mr Dolohov. I do not think Voldemort will attempt such a rash stratagem again. I will make sure to pass on my appreciation to Mr Pettigrew in person as well. Do take care of that leg - a hag I met in France once told me-”

  
  


“-No,” the Auror’s voice was surprisingly hoarse.

  
  


“Pardon?”

  
  


“There’s something else.” Moody waved his hand limply in Dumbledore’s direction, motioning for him to take his chair.

  
  


“Alastor?” Dumbledore’s eyes pierced into Moody, who stared resolutely back.

  
  


“Ach... well, there’s no point dithering about it. The Prewetts are dead.” His voice was blank. 

  
  


Dumbledore gently inclined his head downward, gazing at his desk. His aged face creased into well-worn lines of sorrow. “I see.”

  
  


Moody was silent. Although he was, as a rule, not particularly sociable, he had been good friends with the Prewetts. They had been there at the founding of the Order a few short years ago, and had been active members ever since. He had often lauded them to Dumbledore in these private meetings - spoken to the Headmaster of “those damned Prewetts. Can’t trust them with paperwork, but the two of them could take on a damn dragon by themselves. Bloody good sort.”

  
  


Time passed. Dumbledore lifted his gaze to peer tenderly at Moody. The latter averted his eyes, staring into the space behind Dumbledore’s shoulder as though the portrait of Armando Dippet was the most interesting thing in the world. At length, he spoke.

  
  


“I’ll go and tell Molly. She’s got to be expecting them,” said Moody, a quiet apprehension colouring his words. He stood up. “Got kids of her own, too - same red hair,” he shook his head feebly. “They’re never going to know the stuff their uncles were made of.”

  
  


“No,” said Dumbledore, a note of weariness in his voice. “Don’t worry about informing Molly. I’ll take care of that. You go and rest, Alastor.”

  
  


Moody shot him a grateful look, then nodded. He exited the room with a curt farewell, leaving Dumbledore alone to his thoughts.

  
  


It was not the first time that he had lost comrades on the field of war. His mind trailed back to the days before his titanic confrontation with Gellert - how many friends had he lost in those few spare weeks? How many noble young souls had been martyred because of the selfish whims of a madman?

  
  


Nor would it be the last. For all his faults, Gellert had at least been willing to meet him on the field of war - willing to afford Albus the opportunity to face off against him, pit wand against wand, and bring an end to the sorry affair. Voldemort, unfortunately, did not operate the same way. He continued to be evasive, striking from the shadows of anonymity like a viper hidden in the grass. This war would endure. But would humanity?

  
  


Albus’ eyes fell upon his lap, where his hands lay neatly folded over his flowing beard. The ends of his beard were wet. He realized, belatedly, that the wetness came from tears. He was crying.

  
  
  


Fabian and Gideon Prewett. He raised his wand to the side of his head, pressing it against his temple. He could see their whole lives unravel before his mind’s eye. Eleven year old Fabian, his hair a red shock, dressed in his father’s hand-me-downs, sleeves fraying at the edges, so proud to be sorted into Gryffindor that he had flung the Hat up with a joyous whoop, scandalizing Minerva. Young Gideon, awash with life, who had come a year later. A long list of detentions, Quidditch matches, and schoolyard brawls. The slow onset of maturity - how proud they had been to catch and report Macnair when he’d attacked little Lisa Glades. Their bright smiles, sitting right where Alastor had sat moments ago, promising that they would do whatever they could in the face of the oncoming storm. The group who had met in the office later that week, forming the Order… No longer students, but proud and strong men.

  
  


He pulled his wand away, and a silvery stream of memories trailed lightly behind it. He walked to the corner of the office, carefully drawing the memories towards his Pensieve, and, with a slight motion of his hand, he poured them into the stone basin.

  
  


Now they would never be forgotten.

  
  


“Misters Prewett,” he said, softly, “I’m very glad to have had the chance to teach you.”

  
He raised his head up and turned to the rows of portraits that lined the back facing wall of the Headmaster’s office. Each and every witch and wizard who had ever been Headmaster of Hogwarts had their own portrait there - one day he would, too. The surface contained the combined wisdom of centuries of the greatest minds in wizardkind. He had often consulted with them in his early days as Headmaster, but had soon grown into his own. He had also always been slightly arrogant - though he had immense respect for almost every portrait on the wall, he had always known that none were his magical or intellectual equal. And yet, here he stood once more, before the innumerable eyes of eternity.

  
  


“What hope of victory is there,” Albus asked, “against a man who hides in the shadows? Who strikes where none can anticipate, and slinks back into darkness when challenged?” He paced along the wall, feeling the weight of his many predecessors’ gazes upon him. “And what can be said, I wonder, of the man who challenges him? Is he a hero of justice, as a naive youth might be led to believe? Or is he a fool - an idealistic old coot leading a generation of young witches and wizards to the slaughter?”

  
  


The portraits buzzed with activity, and the office was flooded with hundreds of voices from yore, each attempting to speak over the other, each reaching out through time to change the future.

  
  


“Never heard such nonsense in my life!” sniffed the aged Effie Bones. 

  
  


“Glory, young churl, is its own reward!” boomed Sir Humphrey Bartholomew.

  
  


“Personally, I find that this Dark Lord has a few valid points,” said Phineas Nigellus Black.

  
  


“I expected no less from you, Phineas,” Albus said sadly. “And yet,” he turned to the others, many of whom were still speaking, “what now remains to be done? My students are dying. And yet, I cannot allow Voldemort to continue as he is doing, or it will spell the ruin of wizarding Britain.”

  
  


“Go out and face him, Albus!” short Professor Dippet, Albus’ immediate predecessor, seemed ill-able to control his excitement, and bounced furiously in his portrait, bumping his head on the top of the frame. He rubbed his head with a sheepish grin, then shook his fist passionately. “Go and face him as you did Grindelwald! Wrap up another chapter in wizardkind’s sordid history!”

  
  


Albus smiled wryly. “Had we but been more careful, Armando, we could have avoided all of this altogether.” His eyes misted over as he sank into memory. “And yet, for all my concerns about Tom Riddle, I did nothing. So much misery could have been avoided, if only…”

  
  


“There’s no purpose to questions of what could have been, young Dumbledore.” Said a portrait of a kindly looking woman. “There’s only what we can do going forward.”

  
  


“I completely agree!”

  
  


“Nonsense - we must always be accountable to our past.”

  
  


“Absolute rot - regret is the most powerful magic of all.”

  
  


“Of course  _ you’d _ say that, Percival. You’ve a rather close association with regret, haven’t you?”

  
  


“I’m sure I haven’t the faintest idea of what you mean,  _ Professor _ .”

  
  


“Take him on, Albus! Draw your wand and meet him face to face!”

  
  


“Wherefore all this shouting and din, mine esteemed colleagues?”

  
  


“Back to sleep, Aethelred, you Elizabethan rotter.”

  
  


“A most marvelous proposition! I shall essay to oblige it in an immediate fashion.”

  
  


“Albus, I think you ought to give up. The world can look after itself. Hogwarts needs you.”

  
  


The voices of the portraits melted into each other in the back of Albus’ mind as he stood before them, pondering. The greatest minds in Britain’s wizarding history though they might be, he knew that they were incapable of helping him. The decision of what to do going forward was his to make, and his alone. After all, he had known that before he had even spoken to them. This was just his characteristic tendency to hide from problems, to behave like an ostrich with its head in the sand, rearing itself again.  _ Gellert… _

  
  


He was unhappy about it, but he knew what had to be done.

  
  


“I think, perhaps,” his voice was low, but certain, “it may be time to consider disbanding the Order.”

  
  


The flurry of conversation stopped. The office was as quiet as death.

  
  


“Yes…,” he nodded, his voice growing stronger, “thank you all for your counsel. I believe this is the best course of action.”

  
  


The portraits stared wordlessly back at him. Some with approving smiles, others with looks of disappointment, and many with no expression at all - as though the problems of modernity did not matter to them in their pigmented worlds and varnished frames.

  
  


_ “ALBUS DUMBLEDORE _ !” 

  
  


The Sorting Hat’s grave baritone rang through the silence. Albus turned to face it on its stool. There it lay, the last and greatest relic of Godric Gryffindor, brown and misshapen. And, unless he was very much mistaken, furious.

  
  


“ _ I saw into your heart, boy _ ,” the Hat began. “ _ I snuck around in the dark recesses of your mind.” _ Every word from its leathery mouth echoed through the room with the force of a hurricane. Every portrait’s gaze was drawn to the Hat, eyes wide in respectful acknowledgement of its authority. 

  
  


“ _ Do you remember what I told you then, Albus Dumbledore?” _ the Hat demanded.

  
  


“You said I was difficult,” said Dumbledore, “and yet also the easiest choice you had ever had. You said I could go anywhere.”

  
  


“ _ That I did. In you, Albus Dumbledore, I found the qualities of all Four of the Founders. All the fiery courage of bold Godric, wisdom enough to put sharp Rowena to shame, the unflinching love and acceptance of warm Helga, and the fathomless ambition of crafty Salazar. You could fit into any of the Houses with ease - a student unlike any that has ever passed through these halls. What choice did you make, then?” _

  
  


“I chose Gryffindor.”

  
  


_ “You did,”  _ said the Hat, a note of triumph in its voice. “ _ And never has there been a finer man to carry on Godric’s legacy. Will you shirk away from it now? Stand down in the face of the greatest source of disharmony and despair to wrack wizardkind since Salazar first left Hogwarts? Or will you carry on his work?” _

  
  


Albus stood silently. After a minute, he drew himself up to his full height, looking thoughtfully at the hat. Then he spoke. 

  
  


“I will carry on his work. The Order will not be dismantled.” Many of the portraits broke into uproarious applause.

  
  


“Bravo, I say, bravo!” Dippet clapped enthusiastically.

  
  


“Thank you,” Albus said to the Hat. “I daresay I very much needed that.” 

  
  


But the Hat remained completely silent, seeming to all the world to be nothing more than a piece of old costumewear. Albus smiled fondly at it for a few moments. Then he turned to walk to the fireplace, and the smile slid from his face, replaced by a sombre look. There was work to be done.

He took a handful of Floo Powder, and cast it into the flames, causing them to turn emerald green and shudder and dance vivaciously. With one final look at the Hat, Dumbledore stepped into the fire.

  
  


“The Burrow.” 


	9. Chapter 9

“James, I  _ really _ don’t think that it matters which flowers go into the bouquet.”

  
  


“And that’s one of the few instances in your life where you’ll be wrong, Evans. We’re going to visit a hero!” James narrowed his eyes at the arrangement the florist put in front of them, appraising it with all the intensity of a N.E.W.T’s examiner. “Nothing less than perfection will suffice.” 

  
  


“Honestly, Peter will probably be more excited about the cake than the flowers,” Lily attempted, but her reasoning fell on deaf ears. James continued to  _ hmm  _ and  _ haw _ alternatingly at the florist’s choices, paying no heed to his fiance.

  
  


A few minutes later, they walked into the lobby of St Mungo’s, where Remus and Sirius stood waiting for them, the latter making a dramatic show out of looking at his wristwatch as they approached.

  
  


Lily thrust the flowers into Sirius’ hands. “Don’t even start, Padfoot - the only reason we’re late is the stupid floral obsession you’ve gotten this stupid - treehugger - hooked on,” she said, poking James in the rib.

  
  


Sirius smirked, then looked appraisingly at the flowers. “Protea? For courage? Surprisingly good choice there, Prongs.”

  
  


James beamed. “Nothing less than the best for our ailing hero! Come on, everyone, let’s go!” He ran to the stairs and took them two at a time. Sirius rolled his eyes and ran after him, with Lily and Remus following close behind.

  
  


“You’re here!” Peter’s excitement was palpable.

  
  


“Of course we’re here,” snorted James, “you didn’t think we’d miss our chance at a meet and greet with the legend of the hour, did you? Had to push Dumbledore out of line to get tickets to this.” His broad smile, stretching from ear to ear, belied his sarcastic tone, as he walked up to Peter, flowers in hand.

  
  


“Don’t be like that,” Peter flushed furiously. He had never been very good at receiving praise, what with the occasion always being so rare - and praise from James? Well, that was certainly something to keep him happy for the next few weeks. 

  
  


The others marched in and greeted Peter in turn, each successive bit of praise and congratulation causing him to turn redder. Even Sirius had a kind word to say - “you were a fair spot more handy in that fight than I was, Wormy” -, and Peter scarcely knew how to contain himself. 

He fussed the appropriate amount over the flowers (he didn’t really care for them, but he knew that James thought himself very brilliant for the purchase, and feeding into James’ delusions of grandeur had been second nature to Peter since first year). He exclaimed with genuine delight at the sight of the cake. Time passed quickly in good company - everyone seemed relieved at the opportunity to sit down and talk and enjoy themselves. Though they had been carefree just two days before, sitting and playing Risk at the flat, it seemed almost as though age had caught up with them and laid them low. 

  
  


Still, it seemed that they were all happy now, and that was all that mattered. Peter didn’t hold with thinking too far ahead, especially if the future was frightening and dark. There would be enough time for gloom later. That everyone was joyful in the here and now was good enough. 

  
  


_ Except… _

  
Peter slowly sidled out of the conversation, growing quiet as he thoughtfully watched his friends. None of them noticed, of course. They rarely ever did. Sometimes that would bother him - other times, like now, he was glad of it. It meant they didn’t know that he was watching. And everything most certainly was not quite alright.

  
  


There were lines of worry creasing Remus’ forehead, and his jaw was drawn tight with strain. The others wouldn’t notice, self absorbed as they were, but Peter could see clear as day that his friend was troubled. He resolved to ask him about it later.

  
  


James was smiling, and he did seem genuinely happy (Peter felt a warmth in his heart at the realization), but every now and then a very unfamiliar darkness would pass across his face. Still, James being James, it took him only a moment or two to shake it off, and resume his dazzling, sunny energy. What could be troubling him? 

  
  


His eyes passed loosely over Lily. He liked her, of course, though he had at first been jealous of the ever-growing space she occupied in James’ life, and they had never been great friends. He did not care about her enough to scrutinize her as he did the rest.

  
  


Finally, he saw Sirius. Peter frowned. It occurred to him that his friends really were miraculously self-absorbed. Could none of them see Sirius? He sat on a chair nearly half a foot behind the rest, his eyes clouded and faraway, his contributions to the conversation minimal, but ringed with just enough of the typical Black charisma to keep from setting off alarm bells. Something was bothering him. Peter grimaced internally. Sirius was no Remus - if something was on his mind, they were all about to hear a lot of drama.

  
  


Right on cue, Sirius’ eyes blazed wildly, and he stood up, cutting off Lily’s tirade on Quidditch being a series of increasingly obvious metaphors for pent up male homosexuality..

  
  


“I fucked up,” he announced. Four pairs of eyes looked at him in surprise, then stayed trained on him in patient expectation. He grimaced. “I haven’t been taking this whole war as seriously as I should have… And I’m sorry.” His eyes passed over Lily and Remus as he apologized.

  
  


James looked at him, nonplussed. “Er, Pads, mate, what are you talking about?”

  
  


“I’ve been thinking of this whole thing as a way to get back at my family, have a laugh at their expense,” Sirius said miserably, “and I’ve just always taken the whole thing as a bit of a lark.” He pursed his lips, blinking intensely. “I was mad at you, Wormy, cause you were so scared. But after that fight…,” Sirius slowly shook his head, “I’m scared too.”

  
  


“It’s alright, Sirius.” It was Remus that spoke, warm and reassuring, reaching out to place a comforting arm on Sirius’ shoulder. “We’re all scared. It’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

  
  


Sirius looked pointedly at the wall. Though his eyes glistened, there was no hint of a quaver in his voice. “Before, in the fight, you know… When Fa- when the Prewetts were diverting the Death Eaters, I joked around a bit with them.” A pained look twisted across his face. “When we saw them - the bodies… I just kept looking at his wristwatch, you know? Fab’s watch. It broke when he fell… And I…,” his voice cut off, and he spoke no more. James moved over to him and pulled him into a rough hug.

  
  


“They were good men,” said Peter, though he had hardly known them. It seemed the right thing to say.

  
  


“Yeah,” said Sirius, pulling himself upright in his chair. “Yeah, they were.”


	10. Chapter 10

“Why did you join them?”

  
  


“What?”

  
  


“Why did you join the Death Eaters?” Benjy repeated his question. “I’ve done my homework on you - you’re a Russian, and your family, although pure, isn’t exactly one of the Twenty Eight. What’s in it for you?”

  
  


Dolohov was quiet for a moment as he mulled over the question. He jerked his head toward Benjy. “What is your name, child?” The words came out thick and strange in his unfamiliar accent.

  
  


“B- Er, Jack Longfield,” Benjy managed to catch himself just in time. “What’s it to you?”

  
  


“Well,  _ Jack _ ,” said Dolohov, a smirk curving his lips, showing that he didn’t buy the name, “You’ve never had the honour of seeing the Dark Lord, have you?” He leaned forward, and the chains that bound him to the wall of the dimly lit room rattled. “Never seen the wonders of his magic? Heard him speak of the glory of the new world?”

  
  


Benjy took an instinctive step backward, trying to put some distance between himself and the captive. Unfortunately, the tunnel entrance leading into the Shrieking Shack was not particularly wide, and he could not get far away enough to be quite comfortable. Dolohov’s eyes watched him as he moved, flustering him as he replied, “Well, n-no, I haven’t. He’s not exactly public, your master.” Embarrassed and flushed, he angrily added, “Bit of a coward, isn’t he? Letting everyone else do his dirty work.”

  
  


The chains rattled powerfully as they stretched to their fullest extent, and in the blink of an eye, Dolohov was standing almost nose to nose with him. The tall Death Eater hunched in the restrictive tunnel, and the dim lighting gave Benjy the impression that he stood before a grotesquely disfigured beast.

  
  


“Now,  _ Benjamin Fenwick _ ,” Dolohov whispered into his ear, “that’s not a wise thing to say at all.” His eyes gleamed as the weak lantern flame reflected off them.

  
  


Benjy gulped, “What?”

  
  


“Don’t play coy with me, child,” Dolohov said, “we know more than your feeble Order gives us credit for.”

  
  


Benjy blinked, suddenly taken out of the moment by Dolohov’s words.. ‘Learn what you can,’ Moody had said. This seemed to be a good opportunity. He decided that Moody’s other gruff remark of ‘But don’t talk to him any more than necessary - he’s as sly as a boomslang’ probably wasn’t as important to heed.

  
  


“What do you know?” he asked daringly.

  
  


“You are not a very subtle interrogator, Benjamin Fenwick,” Dolohov smiled, easing back down against the wall, his chains clanking. “Still, I do enjoy having an audience. Perhaps I shall let you know something after all.”

  
  


“Well?”

  
  


“I believe you are familiar with a Miss Meadowes?”

  
  


“Dorcas?” Benjy frowned. “Yeah, I know her.”

  
  


Dolohov snorted. “Had I been merely suspicious of her possible membership in the Order, you would have just confirmed it. Is a bumbling teenager really the best that they could send to interrogate me?”

  
  


Benjy skin flushed scarlet with shame. “Everyone on your side has to know about Dorcas - it’s no secret that she got away from You-Know-Who,” he said, trying to sound as reasonable as possible.

  
  


Dolohov’s eyes turned misty as he grew thoughtful. “That is correct. Your Miss Meadowes escaped the Dark Lord. It was not a measure of her skill, of course. Merely the use of underhanded trickery.” He raised a hand to scratch thoughtfully at his scraggly chin, causing his manacles to jangle tunelessly. “She is a marked woman. None can defy the Dark Lord and live. Her short-lived existence will end within the year.”

  
  


The door to the tunnel thudded loudly against the wall as it was roughly pushed open, letting the bright moonlight stream in, illuminating the surroundings. 

  
  


“I told you not to talk to him, boy,” grumbled Moody, walking in rather awkwardly through the door. There was an odd tapping noise as he moved, almost like a cane, but Benjy couldn’t see one on him. 

  
  


“Has he said anything of use?” Dumbledore’s tall figure followed after Moody, his silhouette shadowy and dark as it blocked out the light. The only discernible features on his shaded visage were his eyes, fixed on the shackled Death Eater, who seemed to tremble before him. Benjy felt an involuntary shiver as he beheld them. They were cold, far colder than the warm and twinkling eyes of his jovial schoolteacher had ever been. This Dumbledore was not Headmaster of Hogwarts - he was the founder and leader of the Order of the Phoenix. He raised his hand, and the door slid shut behind him.

  
  


Belatedly, Benjy realized that the two of them were still awaiting his answer. “Yes, he has. I tried with the pseudonym, but he knows who I am - my full name, somehow.” Moody shot Dumbledore a meaningful look. The latter continued to stare piercingly at Dolohov. “A-and, uh, he’s said… He’s said that they’re going to kill Dorcas.”

  
  


“Is that so?” The words were so harsh that it took Benjy a moment to realize that it was Dumbledore who had uttered them. “I imagine that this is not public knowledge, even among the Death Eaters.” He walked over to Dolohov, peering at him disdainfully over the top of his half-moon spectacles. “Will you speak willingly, Mr. Dolohov, or will we have to resort to less dignified measures?”

  
  


Dolohov stared mutely at the ground. For the first time since Benjy had come to the tunnel, the Death Eater was completely motionless, and his ears felt the absence of the clanking of the chains. Dolohov was afraid. And, for that matter, so was Benjy.

  
  


“You elect misery, then,” Dumbledore said quietly, “so be it.” 

  
  


Moody stepped forward, and Benjy realized with horror that there was only the end of a wooden peg-leg protruding from the leg of his trousers, where his left foot should have been. Moody drew his wand and pointed it at Dolohov, who clenched his eyes shut, but hesitated as Dumbledore spoke.

  
  


“Hold, Alastor,” Dolohov breathed an audible gasp of relief. Dumbledore frowned, then continued. “I shall handle this myself. I don’t wish for you to to attempt anything so fraught with danger while you’re still recovering. Besides,” Dumbledore turned to look at Benjy, “there is young Mr. Fenwick to consider.”

  
  


“Me?” Benjy blinked, surprised to have been called on. “What about me?”

  
  


“There is no need for you to see this, Benjy,” and he sounded like the Dumbledore that Benjy knew again, but older and more weary than he had ever known the wizard to be, “You can still step away, and maintain your innocence. I do not wish for every bright young wizard of this generation to have their spirit stained bloody by war.” 

  
  


Benjy hesitated as he seriously considered the opportunity to leave. He could go to the pub, have a drink, and go home, and everything would be much as it had been. He would still be a member of the Order, of course, but that was different - that was fun, and heroic, and meant standing up against evil. Whatever was about to happen here, in the tunnel under the Willow, was completely different. Dolohov, though he might have been evil incarnate, was a captive, and helpless to do anything. Whatever it was that Dumbledore and Moody intended to do would be coercive, and from the sound of it, painful, and Dolohov would have no opportunity to resist or escape. To bear witness would be to watch a condemned man receive his sentence.

  
  


And yet… Benjy remembered his grandmother very well. She was the only Muggle in his family, and so was different to everyone else, but he had loved her dearly anyway. She had spoken often of how wonderful the wizarding world was - how mysterious and unique its every artefact, how dazzling and beguiling the spells. She had not lived to see the current tide of blood supremacy, but it had reared its ugly head even in her time. He had seen her once, crying into his grandfather’s thin chest. His mother had told him not to ask her about it, that it had been a thoughtless comment by a young pureblood. He had never seen her - his happy, loving, bright-hearted grandmother - sad before. He did not want to inherit a world that she would not have been proud of.

  
  


“No,” said Benjy, finally breaking the silence, “I’m staying.” Moody nodded approvingly and thumped him on the back, his new leg tapping as he walked to lean against the far wall.

  
  


Dumbledore looked at Benjy, his eyes troubled. “Very well,” he said, and his voice was tinged with bitter sorrow. His eyes flitted upward momentarily. “Another broken soul,” he muttered, under his breath.

  
  


He drew his wand and flicked it at Dolohov. The tunnel was filled again with the jangling of chains as the Death Eater levitated, seated as he was, to be face to face with Dumbledore. 

  
  


“I am afraid I do not have the same mastery of Legilimency that Lord Voldemort does,” he said. Dolohov cringed violently at the name, screwing his eyes shut and turning his head desperately away from Dumbledore. “However, I assure you that my skill is more than sufficient to break your mind and leave you a shriveled husk of a man. If you resist me, your fate could be worse than a simple death. Do you understand?”

  
  


Dolohov gave no answer.

  
  


Dumbledore sighed. “Very well, then,” he rolled up the sleeves of his robe and arced his wand smartly downward, “ _ Legilimens!” _

  
  



	11. Chapter 11

“It appears Lord Voldemort is searching for the sword of Gryffindor.”

  
  


“The what, now?” Lily’s question was echoed throughout the room. It appeared that many of those present at the meeting were confused by Dumbledore’s statement.

  
  


“It’s exactly what it sounds like,” James helpfully supplied, “Gryffindor was a big, brawny sort of chap - kept a sword and would challenge Muggles to duels with it. It was one of his most prized possessions, and is now an important historical artefact.”

  
  


Dorcas rolled her eyes and nudged Remus. “Your mate is an insufferable Gryffindor knob, have I ever mentioned?” Remus smiled.

  
  


“Quite right, Mr. Potter,” said Dumbledore. Remus felt a sudden pang of nostalgia for Hogwarts.

  
  


“What does You-Know-Who want with an old sword?” asked Peter.

  
  


“Unfortunately,” Dumbledore replied, “we do not know this. The information we possess was taken from the mind of our captive, one Antonin Dolohov.” He peered down at Peter over his spectacles. “A captive you are to be heavily commended for assisting in the capture of, Mr. Pettigrew!” Peter blushed furiously as several of the Order began to clap, James loudest among them, throwing in a celebratory whoop as well. “However,” Dumbledore continued, “while Mr Dolohov - and, it appears, a few other important Death Eaters - know that their master has his sights set on acquiring the sword, they do not know why. “

  
  


“How did you get the information?” said James, frowning. “Veritaserum or something?”

  
  


“I am afraid not, Mr. Potter. I employed the delicate art of Legilimency.”

  
  


“That’s not on!” James said loudly, his voice thrumming with righteous anger. “You can’t just go about poking into people’s heads! Veritaserum might still be okay, but this sort of stuff’s just bang out of order!” Sirius rolled his eyes from his corner of the room.

  
  


“We’re at war, Potter. Difficult things have to be done.” It was Benjy Fenwick who spoke. Remus raised an eyebrow, and heard Dorcas mutter a questioning  _ oh? _ in surprise. Benjy was usually quiet.

  
  


“Thank you, Mr. Fenwick. But you are quite right to be angry, Mr. Potter. The mind is a precious thing - it contains the very essence of a human being. Please believe me when I say that I would not resort to this measure in any less extraordinary a time. Alas, we live in a world where the luxury of nobility is oft denied us,” said Dumbledore. James still looked heated, but sank bank into his seat.

  
  


Dumbledore smiled appreciatively at him, then continued. “Well, with that final detail cleared out, I believe our meeting today has drawn to a close. Further plans will be communicated to you once Alastor and myself have decided on how best to use the information at our disposal. I hope you will heed my words from the beginning of our assembly, and remember the Prewetts for the good, kind men that they were, and not sink into your grief. They would have wanted for us to keep fighting. Thank you all very much for coming.”

  
  


The room was filled with the sound of chairs scraping against the floor as people rose to leave. Remus pulled himself up from his chair and made to exit the safehouse with Dorcas. His heart pounded. They’d decided that it was time to reveal their new relationship to his friends. After all, they had both nearly died. Life was too short to not take risks.

  
  


“Miss Meadowes - a moment, if you would?” Dumbledore called out as they were leaving. Dorcas shrugged confusedly at Remus, then walked over to Dumbledore. His face seemed grim as he spoke to her.

  
  


James sidled up to Remus, hands awkwardly stuffed in his pockets. “Say, Remus - is everything all right?”

  
  


Remus looked blankly at James. “What?”

  
  


“It’s just that-,” James ran a hand awkwardly through his hair, “-well, Pete mentioned that you seemed to have your mind on something, and I did a bit of thinking, and I thought maybe Greyback or-”

  
  


“Moony, Moony, Moony - you sly dog!” Sirius cut in, a mischievous smile on his face as he approached. He threw an arm around Remus. “You wouldn’t happen to be waiting here for a Ms. Dorcas Meadowes, would you?”

  
  


“W-what?” spluttered Remus.

  
  


“A little birdie told me that the two of you were spotted holding hands at the site of our last battle. Mighty interesting, that.”

  
  


Remus sighed deeply. “Wormtail.”

  
  


“Wormtail,” Sirius conceded gleefully. “Now, what’s the situation with yourself and Ms. Meadowes? Not hoping to hold out on your ol’ pal Padfoot, are you?” He waggled his eyebrows in what Remus assumed was meant to be alluring fashion.

  
  


“We’re sleeping together,” Dorcas’ voice cut in. She was back from her talk with Dumbledore, and grabbed Remus’ arm. “Come on, I need to get out of here. You can talk to your boyfriend later.” 

  
  


Remus allowed himself to be led away, concerned at the lack of mirth in Dorcas’ voice. The sounds of Sirius spluttering - _ they’ve already slept together? -  _ and - _ sex on heels, Prongs! -  _ and James’ awkward comforting receded into the background.

  
  


When Dorcas seemed satisfied that the distance walked would guarantee them privacy, she released Remus’ arm and turned to face him. Her face was stony and blank, but Remus saw a quiver in her chin and worry in her eyes.

  
  


“I have to tell you something,” said Dorcas. “Well, actually, I have to tell  _ someone  _ this, and you just so happen to be the only person in my life I can tell. Isn’t that sad?” she hiccupped, and Remus realized with a jolt that she was crying. He reached a hand out to comfort her, but she swatted it away. “No, no, don’t do that. It’s okay. Sorry. I don’t mean to be rude. There’s nothing wrong with you. It’s just - I’ve only known you for a few weeks, and you’re already the closest friend I have. That’s sad, isn’t it?” She blinked furiously, trying to control the welling wetness in her eyes.

  
  


“This life doesn’t really give you much of an opportunity to keep in touch with your friends. I’ve lost touch with everyone I ever knew or loved. I’m an outcast from my family. Please, I just need to tell you - I just want you to know why I’m telling you this, I don’t want you to think that I’m putting too much of a burden on you, I just need  _ somebody _ to know, I don’t want to be alone, Dumbledore doesn’t cou-”

  
  


Remus pulled her into a tight embrace, silencing her. He squeezed hard, hoping that the mute gesture would convey all the feeling that he knew words would not be able to carry. After a few moments, he drew slightly apart, looking into her dark brown eyes with all the sincerity and affection he could muster. Dorcas nodded weakly, then stepped back. She took a deep breath, and spoke.

  
  


“They’re going to kill me.”


	12. Chapter 12

Remus sat on the bench outside the Healer’s office, waiting for his parents. The white walls seemed to shimmer and shine, vibrating like fluids at the corner of his eye, stilling only when he saw them. He had been here so many times now. __

  
  


_ But why?...  _ His tired mind protested, but he paid it no heed. He was at the Healer’s. That was what mattered. The Healer with the kind, sad eyes and the grey hair. The Healer who would tell his parents, in approximately half a minute, that their son could not be saved. Remus waited patiently, lightly swinging his little legs, and the world warped and twisted about him.

  
  


He had been sent outside a few moments ago. The Healer had examined the scarring on his neck - still red, still fresh, still hurting. That was when his eyes turned from just kind to kind and sad, Remus remembered. So long ago. He had smiled at Remus and patted him on the head. Remus had smiled feebly in return. He’d known, then, that something terrible would happen. 

  
  


The Healer had turned to Remus’ parents and given a nearly imperceptible shake of his head. Remus had seen it, though. He had known it was going to happen. A heady rush overtook him as a new and unfamiliar smell wafted through the room. Though it was unknown to him, he knew it almost instinctively for what it was - the stench of fear. His mother had let out a gasping sob, and he had turned in concern, but her face was set in a weak smile when he saw her. She had ushered him out, then, and told him to wait.

  
  


And so he sat. He could hear the Healer muttering to his parents within. He could almost hear what was being said, but not quite. There were too many senses - too many unique and unfamiliar sensations he had never been aware of before, polluting his mind and body. Remus curled up against the wall. It shifted and curled behind him, but he did not care. He wanted to go home. He wanted his Mama and Papa. He wanted to go home.

  
  


The low thrum of the doctor’s muttering beat into his head, a violent staccato that pained his mind. There was grief there - grief and pity. A low moan came from behind the door. Where did the door lead? Remus could not remember. All he knew was that he should not open the door, he could not open the door. If he opened the door, terrible things would happen. He could not do it.

  
  


The walls were grey now, decorated with photographs of the family and Hope’s loving watercolour paintings. He was in the staircase of his house, walking up to his parent’s room. Hope wasn’t home, of course - she’d had to get a job in the post office. Was the Healer in his parent’s room? He could smell fear again. There was so much of it. And another smell, lighter, but sadder - guilt?

  
  


He heard the low, soft,  _ whoosh! _ of a spell, and a green light gleamed at the edges of the doorframe. The appetizing scent of fear was gone now. There was something else - something putrid, a rot growing with every moment that passed. Two sounds - a loud  _ thump! _ as something heavy hit the floor, and the soft clatter of a wand falling, rolling out through the door. 

  
  


Remus opened the door. Lyall Lupin lay on the floor, his unseeing eyes boring through his son, unrecognizing, unperceiving. His hand was still outstretched in a loose grip. His skin turned blue, and his bones brittle, and he faded away into dust.

  
  


_ I heard Lyall Lupin killed himself. _

  
  


The world warped violently about Remus. His head ached. He smelled fear again, but it came from him. There was no heady rush this time. He turned, and walked, stumbling, like a dead man, back through the door.

  
  


He was dimly aware that the world was white again. The Healer’s office. Of course. His breathing slowed, and he uncurled himself from the ball he found his arms and legs curled up into on the floor. Nothing had happened yet. The Healer would be talking to his parents. Nothing had happened yet. There was at least a year until that happened. He had time.

  
  


The door creaked as it swung open. An impenetrable wall of light blocked all view of the empty doorframe. Remus had to shield his eyes to even try to look at it. A small, shadowy silhouette became visible, moving in the corner of the doorway, an impossible distance away. It grew larger as it approached, and Remus’ mother finally emerged.

  
  


Hope Lupin was beautiful. Not for the curve of her body, or the redness of her lips, as other women would come to be in the future. She was beautiful because something in her shined even brighter than the light coming through the door. Her eyes were illuminated with it - an ethereal kindness and love that gleamed through the shadow. She would make everything alright. Remus knew, suddenly, that his mother would fix the world and accept him and make everything alright. Even if nobody else would, she would, and that would be world enough for him.

  
  


He ran to her, limping from the open, gaping gash in his legs, almost slipping over the trail of blood he left in his wake. He did not care about his ragged clothes, he did not care that his neck was laid open almost to the bone, he did not care about the low and vicious growling that came from the corner of the room -  _ he would not look, he would not look, and then it couldn’t see him, it wouldn’t be real, it wasn’t there -  _ he just ran to his mother, to Hope Lupin, who would save him.

  
  


She knelt as he approached, and he thrust himself into her arms, sobbing into her shoulder. 

  
  


“Why, Mama? Why didn’t you tell me I was a monster?”

  
  


“Hush, dear,” she patted him, comforting him, “Hush. Hush now.”

  
  


“Why?” he demanded, tears streaming down his ragged little face.

  
  


Hope Lupin looked at him. For a moment, she was still kind. Her smile was still real, her eyes still piteous. But then, Remus saw, as he had seen so many times since, the boundaries of her love. He saw the fear that curved the corner of her lips, the helpless revulsion that echoed in her crooning. He saw the hate, so well disguised, but still present, lurking in the back of her eyes.

  
  


Her face turned hideous, and her smile grew terrible and wide. 

  
  


“Because we’re going to have to kill you now, my sweet little boy. We’re going to have to put you down like the disgusting little beast that you are.” The words were raspy, heavy, and unreal. They sounded like they came from a damaged recorder. Hope Lupin had not said those words in life, but Remus could hear them now.

  
  


The growling in the corner turned raucous, and was replaced with throaty laughter. Remus’ eyes fell upon it. A monster stood there. Its hideous jaws and wild gray fur were matted with gore and slaughter. Flesh and limb and bone were scattered across its hide. There was a hand, badly mauled, pressed beneath one of its claws. A small dismembered body lay before it.

  
  


Remus felt himself walk over to it. It was a little boy, pressed facedown into the dirt and grass. His hair was a light brown. Remus turned the boy over with his foot. His own dead eyes stared back at him. The wolf howled.

  
  


Remus stepped back, shivering intensely. The world warped again, but it did not settle. No white, no grey, no grass, no earth, no walls, no sky, no floor. Just change, change and no settling, and no world about him. Remus Lupin was dead. Who was he?

  
  


He looked down. He saw wild and tufty fur covering his body. He yelped, and raised one cruel and vicious paw before his eyes. He turned and ran, ran faster than he had ever run on two legs, hoping to escape the darkness and the void and find his way back.  _ Back to what? _ He did not listen, he kept running. He ran for weeks and months and years and decades. But there was nowhere to run. 

  
  


Alone at last, in the midst of oblivion, the wolf raised its head and howled, the cry echoing into infinity.

  
  


\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

  
  


Remus was still howling when he woke, but the sound erupted from his dry throat as a hoarse scream. He leant up in bed, heart pounding frantically against his restricting chest. After a moment spent calming himself, he looked around, taking in his surroundings. He was in his bedroom, in the apartment he shared with Sirius and James. It was nighttime. The crickets resumed their chirping outside his bedroom window, no longer worried by his scream. Everything was alright.

  
  


He pulled himself from bed and made his way to the kitchen for a glass of water. As he sipped delicately at it, he glanced outside the window. The moon was a thin silvery crescent against the obsidian sky. He frowned. It wasn’t anywhere near the full, then. Why had he dreamed such terrible things? His thoughts fell back into the nightmare.

  
  


He had seen his parents again - Hope and Lyall -, and even though the dream had been mired in pain and anguish, the thought of them warmed his heart. True, neither of them had had the strength needed to deal with their precious child becoming a werewolf, but Remus did not begrudge them that. He felt no rage, only guilt. 

  
  


Hope had not been a monster. He angrily chided himself for tainting the precious image of his mother. She had been a tired, challenged woman. He could not blame her for the prejudices that she had inherited, and that she had tried so hard to challenge. So what if there had been such relief in her eyes when Dumbledore had first come, when she had learned that she could be rid of Remus for so many months a year? She had tried her best, and that was what mattered. And, before the end, sick and dying, she had told him she loved him. She had never quit, never given up on him. That was what mattered.

  
  


_ Unlike his father… _

  
  


Remus shuddered at the involuntary thought. He shook his head, ridding himself of it. Lyall had loved him too. Things had changed after the bite, but Lyall had been nothing short of an amazing father before it. His blood was not on his own hands. It was on Remus. And Greyback.

  
  


Fenrir Greyback. Remus sighed. He knew why he’d had the nightmare after all. He banished the thoughts from his head and sank onto the living room couch. There was quiet and stillness in the apartment. 

  
  


Sirius, no doubt, was out with a woman. Following the expose of Dorcas and Remus’ intrigue, the young Black heir had decided to go and try to one-up Remus, furious that he’d managed to bag what he considered ‘ _ one of the finest pieces of tail in all Hogwarts, Moony!’ _ No doubt he was spending the night with a new conquest right now. 

  
  


James was probably with Lily, the sap. Remus felt a pang as he thought about it. He would quite like to be with Dorcas at the moment, too, but she had said that she’d like a few days alone following her own shocking revelation. So he sat alone, sinking deeper into the couch in the cold hours of the night.

  
  


A series of sharp and melodic knocks at the front door cut through the silence. Remus frowned. Who could be calling at this time of night? He made his way down the hall and opened the door.

  
  


“Moony,” James nodded sharply, acknowledging him. “Get your coat, we’re tearing London up tonight!”

  
  


Remus blinked. 

  
  


“Chop chop, hurry up, you big lanky lug!”

  
  


Remus sighed. It was never worth trying to understand James. He hastily ran upstairs, grabbed his coat, and came back outside.

  
  


Surprisingly, the night ended up being a lot of fun. Remus wouldn’t admit to the nightmare, of course, but James’ presence helped chase it away. They went from pub to pub on the shady London streets, wading their way through an ocean of strange and exotic brews, Muggle and Wizard alike. James saw a dog relieving itself on a fire hydrant, and jinxed the hydrant to relieve itself right back. Remus spelled all the pots in a florist’s shop to stand an inch to the right, giggling hysterically at what he thought an ingenious prank, as James stared blankly at him. They were thrown out of the Leaky Cauldron at about five am for ‘unruly behaviour’, much to James’ chagrin.

  
  


“For the last time, Tom - there’s nothing - _ hic - _ in your bloody rules that says I can’t bring my own chair!”

  
  


“Aye, Potter, but that says nothing of that chair being a goat!” The doors were slammed shut.

  
  


James continued to look mutinously in their direction. “Bet I could get Godric to ram it open,” and he raised his wand, ready to propel his violent goat into action. 

  
  


Remus hurriedly clasped his hand and pulled it back down. “I think Godric is probably tired. Maybe we should let him rest?”

  
  


James looked stricken. “Gosh, I never even thought about that. Poor chap.” He shook his head in disbelief, appalled at his own lack of sensitivity. “You’re absolutely right, Moony. Let’s ditch the bovine and see what else we can get up to.”

  
  


He grabbed Remus’ hand and Apparated the two of them away. The only occupant of the now nearly empty street was a large, scruffy goat. He ambled around amiably, crossing into Muggle London. He spied a red and shiny contraption emerging from the ground with interest. It looked like a perfect spot to relieve itself. Baa-ing in a winning sort of fashion, Godric made his way to the fire hydrant.

  
  


Remus was disoriented as they re-emerged into reality. He turned away from James and heaved the contents of the last hour of debauchery onto the ground.

  
  


“Remind me,” he said, wiping at his mouth with a hastily conjured handkerchief “never to Side-Along with you when I’m drunk.” He turned to James, who seemed to be in a similarly queasy state, and nodded in response.

  
  


The two of them walked in companionable silence for a while. James had Apparated them to a familiar, fashionable part of Muggle London, full of shops and cafes that the Marauders frequented as much for the wares as for Remus and Sirius’ ongoing sexual competitions. Remus’ head was light and pleasant, completely free of the darkness that had assailed it early in the night.

  
  


“Say, Moony,” James slurred. 

  
  


“Prongs?”

  
  


“I was jus’ thinkin’...,” James’ head drooped slightly as he furrowed his brows in intense concentration. It had taken a while, as it always did with James, but he was well and truly drunk now. “You know, the whole,” he leaned in and whispered, “ _ problem stuff?” _

  
  


Remus was confused. He was definitely not tipsy enough to be stupid yet. His werewolf metabolism would have made sure of that. Which meant that Drunk James was being his typically incoherent Drunk James self. 

  
  


“Problem stuff?” He prodded.

  
  


“Y’know…,” James dragged his hands slowly through the air, a poor imitation of his usual energetic movements. He wiggled his fingers experimentally, and then, fascinated by the movement, broke off to stare at them, entranced. Remus cleared his throat loudly. Abashed, James looked back, and said, “Greyback.”

  
  


A thin sliver of ice pierced his happy, warm world. “Right.”

  
  


“I jus’ wanted to say, Re-.. Remy.. Mr. Moony, that - _ whatever  _ you’re feelin’, you can talk to me about it. Lily says I’m a  _ reaallyyy _ good listener.” He thumped his own chest with a winning grin. “D’you wanna know what else she says I’m good at?” He winked. Remus shook his head in desperate refusal.

  
  


James pouted, but continued. “An’ even if you  _ don’t  _ wanna talk about it - that’s fine, that’s fine too! All I’m sayin’ is, I’m right here -  _ hic _ -, Moony  _ olbuddyolpal _ , and if mangy… Greyback… shows up again… Well, he’s gonna go like  _ splat! _ ” He clapped his hands together for emphasis. The sound seemed to startle him. He smiled, and kept clapping, chanting under his bread. “ _ Gry-fin-dor! Gry-fin-dor! Pot-ter! Pot-ter!” _

  
  


Remus smiled. Greyback didn’t seem so ominous with James by his side. “Thanks, Prongs.”

  
  


The sound of voices and footsteps echoed across from the other end of the empty street. A couple was walking there, dressed in an impractically gaudy style. The man sported what appeared to be a fancy tailcoat, and the woman’s dress had a cage that seemed nearly five times the size of her otherwise petite waist.

  
  


“Now, my darling,” the man was saying, his voice inflected with an impeccable upper class accent, “I’m sure we’ll find it here. At long last! I will have proof of the spectre I’ve chased all these years.”

  
  


“You know I think that’s nonsense!” the woman squeaked. Her accent was common, a harsh and striking contrast to her partner.

  
  


“Your skepticism lights the furnace of my arousal so dazzlingly, my sweet sugar plum!” The man exclaimed. “I must have you - here! Now!” He made as though to kiss her.

  
  


“No! Noo! I don’t want that!” the woman said. Dismayed, the man stepped back.

  
  


“Though one door closes, I am sure the other remains open. The ghost will be here.” He looked expectantly at the woman. She said nothing. He coughed loudly, then poked her roughly in the side. “ _ I said _ \- the ghost will be here!”

  
  


“Oops, r-right! Ahem. Oh no! That’s ridiculous! There’s no such thing as the ghost of a stag! Everyone knows animals don’t have ghosts! Besides, why would there be a stag here in the middle of London? That’s a preposterous idea!”

  
  


Remus felt James tense and grin beside him.

  
  


“James, no!” he whispered.

  
  


“James _ , yes _ !”

  
  


Gamboling forward, James transformed into Prongs, and ran down toward the couple. Shockingly, rather than appearing surprised or elated, the man started guffawing loudly. His partner blushed fiercely and fanned herself.

  
  


Prongs stood awkwardly before them, inelegant on his knees in his drunken state, caught off guard by his perplexing reception. 

  
  


“The - look - on - your - face!” the man gasped out, his speech punctuated by endless laughs. “Merlin, Prongs, you’re too easy!”

  
  


Remus rolled his eyes as he joined them. “Pads?”

  
  


The man smiled and snapped his fingers, and the glamour fell away. “At your service,” Sirius grinned.

  
  


Prongs bent down, and a moment later, James ambled over to them, smiling widely.

  
  


“That was wicked!  _ So  _ well done! Moony and I had no idea, did we, Moony?” His eyes turned plaintively upon Remus, who gave him a merciful nod. “And who’s the babe? Is this who you’ve been spending the night with?” He graced the woman with a wicked wink.

  
  


“It’s me!” she squeaked, and her glamour fell away too, revealing a hotly blushing Peter Pettigrew. 

  
  


“We’ve been looking for you tossers everywhere,” said Sirius, rolling his eyes. “I came home after spending some quality time with the  _ delightful _ Miss Amelia Bones - up yours, Moony - , and lo and behold, the two of you were nowhere to be found. So I went and gathered Wormtail-”

  
  


“-Shook me out of bed in the middle of the night and near gave me a heartattack is more like it,” Peter muttered glumly.

  
  


“Semantics,” Sirius waved Peter away elegantly. “Anyway, then we looked for you around all London, till Tom at the Cauldron finally gave us an idea of where you’d been seen last, and we eventually tracked you down here. By the way, there’s a goat covered in piss near the Muggle side of the Cauldron. That your work? It’s inspired, really.”

  
  


James let out an anguished squawk, and pounced upon Sirius, demanding answers regarding Godric’s health and state of well being. The ensuing scuffle expanded, somehow pulling Remus and Peter into it as well, and after a few minutes of drunken, clumsy brawling, the four of them lay in an exhausted pile on the ground. Rays of sunlight fell upon them, as the sun peeked shyly into the night sky. Dawn had come.

  
  


“I just want you all to know,” Sirius said, “It was Bones who wore me out, not your sorry excuse for street-fighting.”

  
  


“Shut up, Pads,” Remus said. He yelped as James’s shoulder dug into his side as the latter adjusted, finding the most comfortable spot to lay in the heap. He shoved him rudely, but James gave no response. Clearly, he felt as they all did - tired, happy, and at peace. Remus thought that he could get used to this.

  
  


A sharp  _ crack! _ cut through the cold morning air, and Lily ran up toward them. James sat up immediately. She looked terrible. Her hair was messy and unbrushed, and her eyes were red and puffy.

  
  


“Lily?” James said. “What’s wrong?”

  
  


“I’ve been looking for you everywhere,” she breathed. Her voice was weak and ragged. 

  
  


“What’s happened?”

  
  


“It’s your parents, James. They’re in St. Mungos.”

  
  
  



	13. Chapter 13

On the 4th of December, 1979, three peculiar incidents occurred in the sleepy little hamlet of Pan’s Bagwalk. The Bagwalk was a quaint, diminutive settlement situated on the crossroads between civilization and wilderness - the final frontier at which men and women stood united against the bitter unknown of atheism and modernity. It consisted of twenty three houses, a small little pasture, a school, a pub, a police outpost, and its pride and joy - a beautiful Gothic church.

  
  


The first incident was perhaps the least peculiar, which spoke more to the exceptional nature of the day than to the ordinariness of the incident itself. Early in the day, two loud sounds ripped through the cool morning air - not dissimilar to the loud  _ bang!  _ of a car backfiring, but thinner. As nobody in the Bagwalk owned a car, and the only motor in the whole village was a decrepit bus whose engine could not have produced so sharp and clean a sound if its life depended on it, the sounds were the cause of much consternation and scandal.

  
  


The second incident was stranger. Not long after the sounds faded and the pristine quiet of the Bagwalk was restored, the lights began to fail. At first, it was just the streetlights, and the inhabitants assumed it to be some new conservation project. Not long after, though, the lights in the houses began to fade. Dismayed by the dark, many took to their telephones to ring the police outpost for answers. They were met with further dismay - the only sound on the phones was an unclear buzzing, filled with distorted static. The few brave souls who ventured into the night to reach the Bagwalk’s lone public telephone, situated in a small blue box in the town square, found unhappily that it suffered from the same plight. Many prayers were made by candlelight deep into the night.

  
  


It was the third incident, however, with which PC Roberts was most concerned. During his afternoon beat, while walking by the outskirts of the village, he had heard loud shouting. Plodding to the source of the mayhem with all the policemanly courage he could muster (for he had always been a bit meek of heart, and needed more time than most to gather his strength), he had found two men, dressed in absurdly medieval fashion, engaged in the most peculiar struggle. They stood a few metres apart, pointing long sticks at one another and waving them in the most ridiculous fashion. 

  
  


“Ho there!” called out PC Roberts. One of the men, dressed all in black, turned to face him. In an inexplicable instant, he seemed to trip, and his stick fell from his hand and rolled a few feet away. His foe crowed with delight. Victorious, he turned to wink at PC Roberts, then turned and ran down a side alley. A loud  _ crack! _ , similar to the one from the morning, split the air.

  
  


“Stop right there!” Roberts gave chase immediately. He felt something crack beneath his heavy boots, but did not stop to look. He turned down the alley in pursuit of the strange man, then stopped to gape in shock. It was empty. Moreover, it was a dead end - the cobblestone road ended in a smooth brick wall. The man had somehow escaped.

  
  


Dejected, PC Roberts trudged back along to the site of the engagement, fully expecting the man in black to have similarly fled, leaving him empty handed. To his utmost surprise, however, he was still there, lying on the ground, his eyes filled with utter anguish as he looked at his stick, which lay in front of him, cleanly broken in two. He allowed himself to be arrested and led away to the holding room without a word, clearly caught up in some manner of rumination.

  
  


Once he was safely behind bars, PC Roberts began his investigation.

  
  


“Name?”

  
  


The man fixed PC Roberts with a disdainful gaze. “What?”

  
  


“Your good name?”

  
  


“Rabastan,” the man drawled, his voice elegant and aristocratic.

  
  


“Rabastan what?”

  
  


Rabastan released a long-suffering sigh. “Rabastan Lestrange.” Some sort of French name, then.

  
  


“And why, Mr Lestrange, were you being a Public Nuisance and Disturbing the Peace at this hour of the day?”

  
  


Rabastan did not deign to grace him with an answer, preferring instead to look indifferently at his fingers, examining each nail in turn. His very presence was strange. Nobody new ever came to Pan’s Bagwalk - especially not someone so clearly from the nobility. Suddenly, PC Roberts feared for himself and his job security.

  
  


“I say - you’re not going to get me in trouble over this, are you?” 

  
  


Rabastan paused his examination of his hands to fix him with a confused stare. “What?”

  
  


“I mean to say, you’re obviously a fine young lad, son of some duke or the other, I imagine. You won’t be getting me in trouble with your Da or something, will you?”

  
  


Rabastan threw his head back and laughed. PC Roberts looked abashedly at the ground and twiddled his thumbs awkwardly.

  
  


“I say - it’s not very funny. I was just doing my job. I don’t want no trouble over any o’ this.”

  
  


Rabastans laughter died down, and he shook his head in amusement. “I’m not the son of any  _ duke _ .”

  
  


“Oh,” said PC Roberts relievedly, “nor an earl neither?”

  
  


“Nor an earl,” confirmed Rabastan. “And yet, once my master comes, you will desire nothing more than that I had been the little princeling you suspected.”

  
  


“Master?” said PC Roberts. 

  
  


“Master,” smiled Rabastan, showing off a row of perfect white teeth.

  
  


PC Roberts frowned. He had a little thought growing in the back of his head, and, as his friends always said -  _ Bob’s little thoughts are always spot on _ . He had read the odd mystery book - who in his line of work hadn’t? - and he had been particularly taken by the idea of asylum escapees. He squinted at Rabastan. The man was evidently loony. He was dressed like a Satanist monk from the Elizabethan period, had been waving a stick at another stranger (maybe his handler?) and thought of himself as having a master. It all added up. And when two and two made four, PC Roberts was nobody to say that they made five.

  
  


“They all say we’re to despise you, you know,” said Rabastan, considering him thoughtfully. “You and all your kind. But I’ve never been quite capable of it. I’ve always found you far easier to pity in your uselessness.”

  
  


“Despise us?” PC Roberts wondered at why Rabastan would hate the police. As usual, the answer came to his mind in a flash. Logic was, he had always said, very much to the brain as oil was to an engine.

  
  


“I’m very sorry,” he said. Rabastan looked at him perplexedly. “I know the police haven’t always been very good to your kind,” he took off his inspector cap and held it before him, smiling in an appeasing sort of way. “But we’ve been getting a lot better now, especially with all of the _sensitivity_ _training_ they’re putting the new lot through.”

  
  


Rabastan laughed, but this time there was something sinister in it. It sent a chill down PC Roberts’ back. 

  
  


“I’ve changed my mind. I think I despise you after all.” With that, he turned to face the wall, and spoke no more.

  
  


PC Roberts kept trying to ask him questions for an hour on end, but to no avail. As he eventually turned to leave, flush with failure, he heard Rabastan’s voice speak one final time.

  
  


“My master will free me from this cell, you know. There’s no point locking me in.”

  
  


PC Roberts tried to be assertive in response. “Well, your master’s going to have his work cut out for him - those are solid steel bars!”

  
  


Rabastan smiled in response, silent once more.

  
  


PC Roberts hung his coat up uneasily before going to bed that night, his mind awash with thoughts of cloaked men and chilling laughs. He would not wake to wear it again.

  
  


\--------------------------------------------------

  
  
  


The Devil came to the Bagwalk that night. Father Brahm knew that it had to be the Devil, for no earthly force could have brought such ruin to the settlement. The town was entirely aflame, and a spectral green skull hung suspended in the skies above them. The lifeless corpses of half the Bagwalk’s residents lay strewn across the streets. Father Brahm attempted to ignore them and wade through the carnage to the church, where he would plead for God’s mercy.

  
  


The havoc had begun a spare few minutes ago. Father Brahm had been watering his little oak sapling when the first of Satan’s forces had struck. It had been the police outpost, and PC Robert’s adjoining room, that had been set aflame. An infernal pillar of fire had come from naught, towering high into the speckled night sky, daring the stars to face it in all its fury and wrath. A grim cackling filled the air, and it was swiftly joined by the laughing of many more fell voices, and the waste of the Bagwalk began in earnest.

  
  


Father Brahm had scarcely had a moment to clutch his rosary tight in his hand, his mind leaping to prayer for the policeman’s wandering soul, when more towers of flame had erupted across the town. The earth belched out blaze after blaze, and the sturdy wooden houses of the Bagwalk provided it kindling aplenty. Dark wraiths swept through the sky, and as they made for the ground, they seemed to turn into men and women, garbed in black cloaks, and Father Brahm knew the source of the terrible laughter.

  
  


He clutched his rosary ever tighter and continued to stumble through the gore and violence that lay scattered across his village. As he walked, he saw the faces of many that he had known, and he shut his eyes, and it seemed almost to drive away the loss, but then he would open them again, and his heart would turn weak with agony. There lay little Bill Potts, who had presented him with a loaf of bread at the last congregation. There the respectable Mrs Matthews, her quiet, kindly face stretched in an expression of unbearable agony. Father Brahm whispered prayers and continued to walk through the shattered remains of his world

  
  


At length, he reached the church. While its stone walls had been struck with flame, and showed the blackened marks of the attack, they had withstood it and stood firm. _Perhaps_ , thought Father Brahm, _God will yet be willing to extend his clemency._ He pushed open the charred wooden door, and staggered into the church. With one hand clutching his rosary, and the other soothing at his right hip (for he had been injured in the conflagration), he made his way to the altar, and fell prostrate before it. He cupped his hands in prayer, and tears fell from his eyes and wet the holy floor, and begged for forgiveness, but no answer was given. God remained silent.

  
  


“Please, Almighty Father,” wept Father Brahm, “I beseech you.”

  
  


“He will not come,” a cold voice spoke in reply. A being stood between the priest and the altar, where moments ago had been naught but empty space. “You beg in vain,” said the man, for man he certainly was, though human he might not have been, and the lanterns in the church all at once burst into light, and Father Brahm beheld the demon.

  
  


He stood tall - if standing it could be called, for his bare, white feet did not touch the ground. As Father Brahm’s gaze rose upward, he saw a dark robe, its sleeves rolled up, and thin pale arms, at the ends of which were long elegant fingers, which nimbly grasped a long wooden stick, and the sight of it made him shudder, for he sensed something terrible. His eyes roamed at last to the face of the stranger. It was long and thin, and seemed to possess the dying vestiges of handsomeness. But it was sunken, and its nostrils serpentine and slit-like, and there was a cruel curve to the thin lips, and its eyes were the crimson of spent blood. 

  
  


There was something profane in the physical essence of the man. Father Brahm’s eyes felt the weight of obscenity descend upon them as he beheld him. He realized, with a start, that the cloaked man had no outline. Where in a normal man there would have been the well defined boundary between flesh and air, in the stranger was only vagueness. His skin seemed almost to meld into the air at its edges, and when he moved, his body seemed to ripple through the air, the dark cloth of his robes shivering like a foul vapour.

  
  


Father Brahm rose to his feet and drew from his breast pocket a small cross, which he then held before him, crying, “Back, dog of Satan! Back now to your Master! This is a place of God!”

  
  


The fiend’s eyes bore into him, and he felt that his soul was laid bare in that bright church, all the secrets of his life escaping his body and trickling into the world. 

  
  


“Aubury Brahm…,” said the demon, and his voice was still cold, and resonated with dreadful majesty, and the light of the lanterns flickered. “Know this, before you perish. I have no master.” 

  
  


“Then you are the prince of darkness?” Father Brahm’s question came through trembling lips, “Lucifer himself?” 

  
  


Again he felt the innermost sanctums of his mind and soul violated and thrust into the world external. The demon seemed pleased with his words, and smiled in reply, “I am.”

  
  


An incredible compulsion struck Father Brahm, and he sank back to his knees, cupping his hands profanely before the Devil. 

  
  


“You will worship me,” Lucifer commanded. Father Brahm felt his lips part to begin prayer to his new Lord, as was only natural in the new order of the world. But, as he began to give utterance to the first words, he felt the cool wood of his cross burn in his palm, and he refused to speak. For an age, it seemed, they were stuck in that moment - the Devil towering above the priest, the latter unable to move from his position of worship, but stubbornly refusing to speak.

  
  


A flash of anger contorted the Devil’s face. “Very well then, Father.” His spectral hand swelled through the air, and Father Brahm was turned, kneeling before the altar as he was, to cold stone. He seemed to all the world naught but a statue, but for the tears of blood that ran from his stony eyes and spilled onto the church floor, blooming into an ever growing red puddle.

  
  


Lord Voldemort turned from the Muggle in disgust, and exited the church. His followers assembled before him, masked and cloaked, their excitement at the events of the night unconcealed. They had not been inattentive in their labours. The village had been reduced nearly to rubble. With a lazy flick of his wand, the church collapsed behind him, and the ruin of the settlement seemed complete.

  
  


“Rabastan.”

  
  


The rescued Lestrange immediately answered the summons, bending before Lord Voldemort and kissing his feet. “My Lord, I beg for your mercy, your absolution, your clemency - I remain your servant, most faithful… most devout… I crave only your justice.”

  
  


“You have it,” said Voldemort, and Rabastan wept tears of joy. “See that you do not fail me again. Lord Voldemort is merciful, but mercy must be bounded by reason…”

  
  


Bella stepped forward, her mask and robes incapable of disguising her singularly lithe movement. “My Lord,” she pointed behind him. 

  
  


Lord Voldemort frowned. Somewhere in the distance, at the far end of the ravaged settlement, was a small house, still upright. With a twist of his feet, he stood before it. It had sustained some small damage - here a wall was charred, there a window broken - and yet it still stood, the last structure in what had once been the village of Pan’s Bagwalk. Lord Voldemort raised his hand to touch the wall, and felt the deep web of magical wards that guarded it. He turned to the gate, and read the name written on the neat mahogany board.

  
  


“How very interesting.”


End file.
